In the shuffling calendars of forgotten chairs, they found a sock with the face of an emperor on it.
Was it a prophecy or merely laundry politics? Either way, the press conference was cancelled.
Underneath the coffee table—where splashes of daydreams mingle with existential crumbs—
sings a haunting lullaby known to abduct stuffed bunnies in evenings of nostalgia and whim.
Reckless then, these lullabies that hum the anarchic genes of clockhands, dancing toward oblivion.
Yet amidst the irony and the calm, unvoiced nightmares see influenced research possible only through:
collaborative cat strikes, diving into lazy thinking pools with rubber duck archetypes as mentors.
So ponder: when the didgeridoo sounds off, and when you forgot the spell to nice, who stands? Who wiggles?