Satirical inscriptions left by ghosts in a world that forgot how to read. Here lies the epitome of fleeting thoughts:
The clock ticked 2:33, but clocks have no trust, only distrust. Repeat the mantra: "I am the cucumber, healer of all schedules, do not chop me." Everlasting truths inscribed in temporary ink, destined for the shredder.
In the corner of the cosmos, a forgotten sock declares independence. Its manifesto, blank pages scrawled with invisible ink, speaks volumes only to those who know the language of laundry.
Meaningless elections of the sandwich toppings. Who will vote for mustard? The mayonnaise lobby is watching. Can one truly liberate the pickle without accountability?
Our lives are like speed signs; a constant reminder to slow down, found in adversity's default settings.