Along the corridor strewn with unsaid farewells, it flickered— a lantern murmuring secrets locked in the folds of darkness.
Old Marlow, a fan of both the absurd and the mystical, decides at this moonless hour to engage the entity woven in the archway shadows.
"Its name, I reckon, is laundromat roundabout certainty!" he shouts, his hat teetering unknown destinies atop his untamed head.
And the lantern, circling and circuitous, unanswered and obstinate, swayed in a rhythm punctuated by Marlow's guttural song of the lost rivers.
Where do they even go, those rivers that thread the continent like forgotten vines trawled by amnesiac crabs?
Perhaps naiveté surrounds all thinking-lanthornes, those parasitizing chisels eeking out entropy-added meaning from candor vacuole mildness.
What words and what tales fall stitched to the cruel kite strings stretched sinisterly overhead!?
Unearthly constellations began their tango above the cobblestones, Martian prose shining madly into the aetherial scrapbook of lunatics.
Obscene flurry of waterfall rhymes rebuking mint-condition governance! A whole roundhouse listen to cicadad's night tabernacle.