In the shadowy confines of what we call the universe, the clocks tick not in rhythm, but in synchrony with chaos. Each second a bead dropped into the ocean of time, each minute an echo in the cathedral of stars.
Pause, and who hears the ticking? The universe may well be a grand grandfather clock, winding down yet refusing to admit the hour is nigh. We are the infinitesimals pondering the infinite, sitting at the edge of a cosmic sand dune, watching the stars fall like the ashes of forgotten dreams.
The cosmic clockmaker works in secret, I suspect. Invisible hands turning mechanisms we cannot begin to comprehend, for we are too small, too ephemeral. Yet, we strive to understand, to etch our own stories into the fabric of space-time.