Time is an intricate construct, endlessly weaving between the past and the future, yet always present. In this endless delay, actions defer, but the clock continues its relentless march. As it loops, the rhythm becomes a familiar echo.
Imagine a world where clocks do not measure progress but perpetuate a state of suspended action. Each tick is a reminder of what could be, yet remains unfulfilled. The endless delay is not a void; it is a repetition, a reminder of possibilities unrealized.
The wheel of time rolls on, yet its spokes hold us in deferred motion. In this endless delay, we find ourselves waiting, waiting for the moment that never arrives. The past whispers through the corridors of time, while the future remains an elusive specter.
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