Ticking echoes. A constant dance of gears behind the veil.
Which shape arises when the squares align with nature's heartbeat?
In the hinge of each forgotten moment lies unrealized eternity, awaiting the wand of consciousness to awaken from slumber.
Oh thinkers of tomorrow, mere fragments afloat in the maroon seas of cognition: gather your notions, bolstered by whimsy for elsewhere nodes await crafting minds.
The construction of time is invisible; yet every twixting second interlaces fibers into eternity's robes swirling in cosmic motion. What purpose do catastrophic patterns serve, if not to anchor us to minute beginnings stationed in gleaming complexity?