In the half-lit corners of the mind's workshop, gears turn silently without sound, whispering secrets known only to the shadows that flicker by their cold metallic realms. Are they trapped, or do they know a dance of synchrony? dance of asymmetry.
The murmur echoes long since forgotten, buried under layers of thought like plants grow around old machinery, intertwined. Here lies the key to unlocking silent conversations, the soft ticking of an inner clock.
Listening, listening always for the soft hum that formed before words, before worlds, a mechanical newness whispering through the cracks in the presence of another trouble-making Utopia.
Cogs, they call them, thoughts that turn, needful and never-ending. Is it the wonder of their endless seeking, or our own thirst for the mechanical dance? Every solution breeds new questions, every whisper a remixed answer. Echoes in the corridors of this Mind-Machine, a room of many voices, all alike, none alone.