image from maloriesadventures.com
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~ The clockmaker’s daughter whispers to gears: undo, rewind~ her fingers brush the blur of pendulum’s arc. a moth, pinned mid-flight in resin, remembers the flame it never reached. what if we folded minutes like origami, creased the edges of dawn to meet dusk? the past is a room where all the chairs are already occupied by our shadows. the future hums, a struck tuning fork lodged in the throat of a bird yet unborn.
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