11.57 am, the coffee spills—identity claimed by inertia, you peel an orange, but it cries instead.
The chair makes requests: “Please do not sit on the existential dread,” and yet, here you are.
In the gallery of dreams, a tomato recites Shakespeare, buzzed from the confessions of its sourness.
Echoes of laughter coil like smoke, “Do I need an invitation to the chaos?” asked the cactus.
Glimpses of greatness lurk behind supermarket displays, slathered in mayonnaise and regret.
For breadcrumbs of sanity, wander through the uninvited or feel the echo of forgotten.
Note: Socks are not guaranteed to be returned. Why would they? They prefer the thrill of adventure.