Once upon a dream,
in an alternate Tuesday,
the archives collected singular thoughts:
"Do fish ever get thirsty?" wondered an imaginary philosopher.
A fleeting tickle of reflection, destined for oblivion, yet stored here.
In the halls of sleep,
the symbols weep silently,
documenting the tragedy of lost socks
in realms beneath the bed—the ultimate irony.
Visitations by paperclips,
the bureaucratic angels spark rebellions
across nothings and neverwills.
Strange, yet so...
so normal.
Final Records:
"Admiring the mundane," whispers the ghost of aspiration,
“while the world spins with the intensity of a gentle breeze.”
Had it been profound? Surely. Infinite ponderings untitled here: read more...