Time

A delicate, antique hourglass with intricate etchings on its golden frame, shattered on a worn, wooden table, the remnants of its once contained sand slipping silently through the cracks, like the fleeting moments of a lifetime lost, as if grasped by an invisible hand, with tiny grains cascading down, forming a small, irreversible heap, amidst the faint scent of aged wood and forgotten memories, in a melancholic, warm, golden light, reminiscent of the works of Zdzisław Beksiński, with the eerie, symbolic atmosphere of H.R. Giger, and the nostalgic, storytelling quality of Jean Giraud, aka Moebius.