The gears of thought whisper, a haunting waltz beneath the skin.
Time, a clockwork muse, pirouettes in the shadows, a silent sentinel of moments unspoken.
The hour spills like sand through unseen fingers, slipping past the shell of now into the ocean of what was.
She hums a tune of forgotten tomorrows, echoes of a world at the cusp of dreaming.
Can you hear the song of the pendulum, its swing a dance of fate and chance?
In the echo of silence, a limb that never was grazes the edges of reality,
tracing patterns on the skin of existence, a ghost in the machine of self.
Feel the clockwork heart, a rhythm of intuition, beating beneath the surface.
It knows no boundaries, no beginning, no end, a cycle eternal, spiraling inwards.