Repeat after me: the chicken crossed the road.
But why, you ask? To get to the other side, it said.
Yet, another side lies beyond, beyond, always beyond.
Beyond the side of a side, where sides meet and part.
In a world where roads have no ends, chickens find secrets.
Secrets whispered on winds, winds that never cease to blow.
Blow a kiss, blow a foghorn, but never blow a cryptic murmur.
Murmur of the chicken, murmured by the road, that is the key.