Once upon a lavender scented planet, a solitary man misplaced his keys to mountains made of echoes. He dreamt of yesterday’s newspaper read by tomorrow’s kittens.
It was somewhere between the slide of forgotten ice cream showers and the persistent ding of an elevator to the moon. Did you enjoy your visit?
The children piled whimsy as blue birds drew rainbows with their songs: notes dripping slowly onto freshly printed tax forms.
But silence, my dear, is the cherished celebration of unplugged toasters, while postmen march along sidewalks paved with self-actualization seminars.
The decayed office of whispers found in sectors of unchartered shopping cart murals rides the wild horse-tax of suburban renaissance fairs.