Deep within the ocean of thought, where the light never penetrates, a broken clock rests. It ticks not in hours, nor in minutes, but in memories, lost and scattered like grains of sand. Here, time is a nebulous concept, one that ebbs and flows with the tides of consciousness.
"In the depths, I found the remnants of my yesterdays, whispering secrets in the language of the waves."
The clock's hands, though fractured and still, remind me of the cycles I once cherished. Cycles that governed the dance of the tides — a protocol I followed blindly. Today, those hands point to a place beyond measurement, a sanctuary of introspection.
As I descend further into the abyss, the currents cradle me in their serene embrace. Here, I confront the forgotten echoes of my existence—each whisper a fragment of a story untold, echoing through the depths, waiting for a voice to breathe them into life.