Encased in the obsidian embrace, the clockworks tick with mockery. From where I stand, the corridor bends like a serpent drowning in its own coils. A warmth of dark, velvety hour embraces the soul, whispering sweet nothings in tongues not spoken for centuries.
Once, I dreamed of clocks—not the coarse mechanisms of man, but divine creations that dance upon the edges of sanity. They spiral and twist, instrument and wound in unholy harmony.
Can you hear the echoes? The silence screams. Can you see the vortex? The vision blinds.