Once, in a realm where geometry lingered between whimsy and wisdom, vast hollow cylinders dwelt. They were the guardians of secrets, spinning their infinite spirals above an octobullar landscape. Within these forgotten tubes lay voices not of men, but of musings without mouths:
☙ There was a clock that resided in my shoebox attic, frozen not in time but in defiance. It ticked not away, but sideways.
☕ In the garden of marble cabbages, vegetables spoke in cryptic tongues woven with silken subtleties that tangled the mind.
★ "Please," it whispered, "do not question the jellyfish dandy parade, for its purpose swims beyond your shallow desires.
The cylinders spoke true, though their songs were not of clarity but of cosmic riddles and echoes of unrealized dreams.