Colors are threads, weaving themselves into the ever-moving tapestry of our days. Each moment stitches anew an old patch, forgotten yet familiar, a labor of a clockwork mind ever turning.
Sometimes, I hear the clock speak not with sound, but with shifts in hue. The wall becomes a canvas of time, each tick a brushstroke in the palette of existence. The sepia shades of morning give way to the cerulean afternoon, all under the watchful gaze of an unseen hand.
And when the machinery winds down, the dusk unfurls its velvet canvas, embroidered with whispers of dreams yet to awaken. As you brush against its threads, ponder the stories locked within, like a chest of ancient tales woven into the fibers of this living tapestry.