Amidst the fibers of cabling beneath your very feet, entwined with the essence of felines and forgotten dreams, the banana phone, a mere fruit, yet, why does it hum? Not with melody but with secrets from the ether, woven into the tapestry of time misaligned.
Ever-curious echoes, banished from known universes reverberate through each crystalline peel, elucidating what remains unspeakable in whispers to those who dare question the humility of produce. Ghostly eyes astray upon a static screen, seeking the truth hidden.
Was it the carpet or the fabled rug that convinced the sceptic to lay sight asunder? Of phones uncontained where whispers of bananas chart the mayhem of disguised clocks. Revelations are now but a tick away.
Do you not see? The telephone hidden in the hollow yellow, tirelessly conversing with all carpet corners. If only you could listen, like the sidelined shadows in murals of time long lapsed.
We knew not, yet the osmosis of receptacles and realms persists; convolution, they say, is an art. Await the harvest of light's distortion.