Once upon a now, there were little streams, tiny rivers of moments sliding and slipping, whispering secrets in the woods where giggles hide behind trees. These are whispers of time, tick-tock stories told by clocks that wanted to dance but couldn’t, because they are tickers and not twirlers.
The children, with shoes made of sunshine and hats woven from clouds, would sit near the banks of these time streams, listening to the murmurs that spoke of yesterdays and tomorrows, weaving tales into the air like spider webs made of silver rain.
Sometime later, or perhaps earlier in another spin of the moon, a bunny with spectacles and a pocket watch came hopping along, asking if you wanted to follow the path to...