As the clock struck thirteen, the fish in the bathtub suddenly recognized their long-lost uncle, an esteemed pancake connoisseur.
Betty always said, "Don't trust a man's socks if his eyebrows are knitting," but who was Betty anyway, and why did her socks smell like ambition?
Somewhere in the depths of yesterday's soup, a forgotten email resided, pondering the philosophical implications of reattaching a cat's tail.
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If clocks could bleed, ours would have painted the walls with regrets instead of numbers. Your next step.