Beyond the horizon where dreams cascade like gossamer pointed feathers,
there lies a realm of unending echoes, resounding with the
improbable juxtapositions of the human farce. Once, amidst the
victorian lampshades and spaghetti crown jewels, an echo bellowed:
"Dearest echoes, beyond this manifold canvas, will the phantoms of yore
unfurl their crystalline spectres and choreograph a trundle upon the
marzipan moon?" Alas, the brass herald squealed a catastrophic bouquet
of gasps and balloon mishaps.
Inside this alcove of dreams, nothingness pirouetted
gracefully, only to partake in an absurd debate about the existential
weight of feather dusters. Lamentingly, illusions
collided with realities in a tango trespass, their silken yarn of
adventures perennially intertwined.
Were you to listen closely, the oscillations of joy and dismay
would narrate an epic reminiscent of our own dizzy waltz through the
infinite, where shadows cast
chewy macarons upon the pastry tiles of time.