Buried Gearwork
Brass dust settles into the creases of your palms as you pry a fossilized mechanism from beneath the floorboards. These etched gears do not track hours, yet they mirror the interlocking geometric shadows cast by fractured prisms across darkened canvases. To touch them is to feel a low-frequency thrumming against your skin, suggesting that existence is less a sequence than an accumulation of heavy iron plates colliding in dark space. A sudden, quiet stillness settles over the room as the gears finally lock into place.