In the dawn’s early pause, where irony meets slumber’s fastidious hold, we freestyle. The moon whispers secrets to insomniac poets whilst stars roll their eyes—outdated celestial clichés, we suspect. Yet here, in this realm woven by sleep’s delicate hand, the parody persists.
"Reality is but a canvas," he said, splattered with yesterday's unfulfilled ambitions and dripping existential crises. Meanwhile, she orchestrates the nocturnal symphony—an opus composed of creaky floors and refrigerator hum.
Join the futile dance of reflective prisms, where each facet represents a dream deferred and a waking sigh. Here lies the nocturnal architect, planning skyscrapers of sand in her mind’s eye. Will they stand? Of course, they're ephemeral—a mere jest of the tide.
And amidst these surreal horizons, a question arises: do we chase the morning or become its shadow?
Dive deeper: Porcelain doves upon trial, witnesses to irony's brew.
And for those who seek to unearth the prologue to this whimsical saga: Inert Circles: A Prelude.