Amidst the relentless ticking of clocks — the sands of time, those artful deceivers — were declared eternal indeed, yet their permanence is written in whispers, not screams. Stoic and ironclad in their absurdity, they laugh at calendars. The irony! Invisible ink, indelible irony.
When the last hourglass ran dry, the sands simply shrugged, rearranging themselves into new paths of ancient folly or perhaps landing softly on forgotten shorelines, ephemeral delights.