The clock's hands have collapsed upon themselves. They once were indicators of motion, guides in a world obsessed with the progression of shadows. Here, time unravels in whispers between the threads of eternity.
What past has never come to pass? What future wraps the present in an embrace too gentle to perceive? Within this always, the river of moments meanders silently, formless yet intimate.
In the corridors of thought, stepping leads nowhere, yet the journey is perpetual. Place your thoughts here and now, where the universe breathes in sighs of cosmic poetry.