Assembled Clockwork
Brass gears spill from a cedar chest with a rhythmic, metallic clatter against the floorboards. These serrated fragments lie scattered among the dust, their polished teeth suggesting an existence built on tension rather than organic growth. Like the ammonite that rests perfectly preserved in its stone tomb, each cog functions as a solitary monolith within a larger, unseen mechanism. To be is merely to find one's place within these interlocking geometries, a quiet alignment of parts holding firm against the weight of the world.