On a Tuesday morning, the coffee brewed with unearthly precision. The stars align strangely, despite proven theories ignored over creation.
Across the room, the old clock ticks slightly offbeat. Time, a mere suggestion here, dances with the gravity of unwritten melodies.
A newspaper article lies half-read beneath a forgotten teacup. It speaks of a comet, a stray cat, and the local farmer's unrivaled pumpkin.
There are whispers of galaxies between the daily commute plans. Words spill like stardust, connecting dots only visible in dreams.
Have you ever stared into the depths of the universe while sorting laundry? The cosmos might just be peeking back.