In the twilight hours of an age gone bizarre, when the coffee flows like blood and the daily grind is a soldier's hymn, we find ourselves murmuring. Listen closely, for the words slip like shadows between the fingers of reason. Have you heard the whispers of inflation complaining to the CFO of existential crises? They say the markets are just like your relatives after a few drinks: unpredictable and prone to emotional breakdowns.
Yet, in these murmurings, there lies a fearsome intuition. The kind that warns you, not of ghosts or goblins, but of taxes coming due like old debts from a forgotten war. The kind that nudges you towards that abandoned amusement park—where rides rust and signs sag like tired truths—whispering promises of a nostalgically ironic joyride.
Dare you continue, my friend? Dare you step into the Loneliness? Where walls speak in a dialect of regrets and hope hides behind peeling paint, pretending to be the landlord of your aspirations?