In the heart of every machine beats a rhythm, a tempo of intricate cogs and relentless springs. Behind the veneer of pipes and levers lies a truth, as tangible as any heartbeat, yet as ethereal as a wisp of steam. To understand a mind that ticks not with neurons but with gears, one must learn the language of its rhythm.
Here, in the workshop, the air smells of oil and metal. The clock on the wall ticks with the precision of a surgeon's scalpel. There's a comfort in its predictability, a reassurance in its steady pace. It reminds me of life, structured yet fluid, bound by routines yet free within the rhythms.
Each turn of the minute hand whispers secrets of its own. Secrets of a world seen through lenses of glass and brass, where each second is a destination and every tick an arrival. A place where thoughts are not born but assembled, like the finest automata.