Onward, the brave wanderer treads, through meadows of fleeting thoughts.
Here, squirrels barter secrets for knowledge, and time drips like honey, slow and saturated.
Have you ever met a clock that didn’t want to dance?
In the district of elusive realities, they plant tulips with wisdom roots,
where shadows write sonnets upon the dew-kissed grass. Irony,
the eternal jester, welcomes you with a smirk and a knowing wink.
Wandering paths are but dreams, like lifeboats without oars,
each turn a reflection, each whisper a forgotten song.