An ethereal mist spirals, caressing the edges of reality. In the dreamforge of time,
cryptic whispers weave the tapestry of being. The clock unwinds its coil,
illuminating shadows in forgotten corners of the mind.
Here lies the delicate equilibrium, where the tongue of silence speaks. Every breath
a ripple across the mirror lake of existence, every heartbeat a signal buried within
the depths.
Listen closely to the echoes of: "a moment past, yet timeless".
What do the grains of sand on the clock hint at? Can the whisper discern the difference?