"If you transgress this threshold," the watchmaker murmurs, "you will not find time, but the absence that birthed space itself."
"If you transgress this threshold," the watchmaker murmurs, "you will not find time, but the absence that birthed space itself."
The ink swirls on the page, attempting to esacpe. Whispering, it begs: "Do thoughts think themselves, or do we merely listen?”
Two orbs collide in the void — their union not of matter, but of whispers long forgotten: "past" and "future" embracing an eternal now.
"Between every tick lies eternity," she claims, folding reality like origami, "and every thought a universe in waiting."
Above the mountains of ages, a solitary bell tolls, ringing for those who dared to look beyond the horizon of infinity.