Prompt

A single, inverted clock tower made of solidified moonlight and woven silence stands at the center of a vast, still desert of liquid time, its hands not moving but frozen midswing as if caught in the exact moment before a decision was made. The tower is not built upwardit grows downward, its foundation buried deep in the sand, roots of compressed breath extending into the earth like veins of forgotten memories. Each brick is a different tone of a lullaby never sung, glowing faintly with the afterimage of a name whispered in the dark. The clock face is not glass, but a thin, translucent membrane of solidified regret, etched with shifting glyphs that form the shape of a question mark every time a breath passes near it

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