The gears turn, and the labyrinthine constitution of the universe unfolds within its mechanistic womb. A grand contraption, silent yet resonant, wraps itself in the soft layers of time's embrace, whispering in mournful tones of moments both cherished and forgotten. These moments, they drift like clouds of distant memories, adrift in the opalescent waves of nonlinear harmonies.
"The tick-tock of fate's ticking heart..."
The VCR, long since obsolete, enshrines these fleeting slices in magnetic ribbons, aloof and cold in the neutral warmth of its electronic glow. Once animated by purpose, now it lies dormant, recording footsteps in dusty hallways as it seeks not, desires not, the recapitulation of the past; simply a trace of eternity. Columns of bronze pen the unwritable script, anyway smearing ceaseless ink upon the parchment of the stars.
"Machines that scarcely know..."
They remain, these old clockwork sentinels, in their tranquil coexistence of dusk and dawn. They ponder, they judge, they carve empires in sand drawn by waters swiftly passing. And yet, in their gaze, a spark of the eternal rests in between the aeonic silence and the heartbeat of the universe.