Whispers

Of the Absurdly Mundane

The toaster contemplated its existence as bread nestled in its warm embrace, pondering,

“Am I an architect of warmth, or merely a conveyor of tan?” The clock chimed in with its perpetual ticking, “Time is but a series of toasts, each slice a second unto eternity.”

Underneath the digital blanket of zeros and ones, a question loomed:

“What if the clouds are but a forgotten sky, stretching its memory over the neon oceans of the city?” The conversations drifted like autumn leaves, absorbed into the soil of forgotten archives.

They say, when the moon smiles, hide beneath the pillow of reality.