In the swirling arms of the windmill, eternally caught in a breeze, the wheel mocks the sun.
Above the ancient rooftops it whispers: "Who is your master, Chronos? For I am the child of Aeolus, bound to dance else risk death to stasis."

Consider the epochs where these flimsy blades served as prayer to vapor, not toy for tender hands.
Do they see the world through their blinkering rotation—no end, no beginning—embracing a full cycle of thought unbeknownst to tethered mortals?

What if I told you that in every flicker, modernity slices time to nuances stitched by invisible weavers? The phenomenon necessary; the turning, desire. Each grain of sand in the wind's glass, asserting its presence over inevitability's folly.

Amidst sandcastles and horizons muted by radio silence, religion becomes a sighing echo
piercing the underbelly of more pressing glitches in being.

So here we inscribe digital relics to ask: what is east to the wheels of ancient aether?
An anchored refuge found influence inward, or a dance in rejoicing toward heliac liberation?