The sky drips laughter, mocking rational thought— overnight the stars collided, forming equations in syrup. The horizon bends like an old story told beneath the shade-golden umbrella, each syllable resonating at fruit-like ripeness. Banana in the sky, banana below, a symphony of ellipticals spinning in untold tales. Coordinates scattered like dreams, forgotten bridges beckoning with a whisper of citrus solace.
Underneath the banana tree, equations grow wild in the darkness of noon. Laughter echoes in the curve of the yellowed bark, secrets hidden among the tangles of banana leaves. "What is your formula?" asks the breeze with a sly grin. Its answer lies hidden in the folds of algebraic juice, untouched by the cold eye of a ruler's rule.
Enter the dream or perhaps an aside
The numbers dance, a tango of mirth and despair. Curves, curves, everywhere. Long lines of symmetry rest against the horizon, sighing in the wake of unraveled dreams. Once, there was a raspberry equation; now only bananas remain, yellow and complex in their acquired simplicity.