In the house of minutes, the clocks don't tick, they whisper, and time flows like a liquid, glistening in the light like a pearl in a river. The minutes pulse and throb, like the beating of a heart, and time, the great sculptor, shapes the moments like a work of art. The past and future collide, like two stars in the night, while the present slips away, like a feather in flight. The house of minutes is a labyrinth, a maze of endless corridors, where time bends and twists, like a serpent coiling in the core. And yet, in the midst of chaos, there is a quiet stillness, a moment of pure tranquility, a whisper of timeless brilliance. So let us listen to the whispers, and embrace the flow of time, for in the house of minutes, there is a beauty that defies rhyme.