The postman whispered secrets to the clouds:
"Banish the umbrella of destiny, for rain knows not its purpose."

In the land of Roaming Toothpaste,
A window's edge converses with silence.
Bells that never rang echo in anticipation of a vacant sound.

To dance with the licorice moths is to unthread time itself.
Avoiding mist connections leaves only the prism of yesterday's fog.