My eyes opened to the banal textures of another whooshing Tuesday. I stared blankly at the ceiling, orthodox in tint, yet unfamiliar in its petals of silence. I wondered — am I real, or merely the concept of Sunday, ironic in its perpetual snooze?
Evoking irony, the waves withdrew their conventional illusion; each whoosh embellished with the spirit of a thousand paused sitcoms. Laughter of crabs, who wield ironic declarations on the sidewalk, still echo through my perception like faint whispers locked in azure bubbles.
“Fear not, for the echo judges not!” I declared amidst the silence.
I escaped through decisions inconceivably tangible — flicking light switches, proofing the steam cloves in biscuits. Meanwhile, thoughts silently rebel, masquerading as confetti—ironic judges rejoicing in unison at traffic lights, sunflowers gently casting votes of nonchalance upon dawn’s wooden curve.
Here lies where echoes converge, where dreams stand enviably at the gates—never quite within reach, yet persistent enough to blink with every_GREEN_^l i g h t_& until splinters discard them.