Do you hear that? It’s the sound of your past selves banging pots in echoing disappointment.
A glowing vessel of your imagination, slightly off its axis but always ready to serve warm nostalgia simmered with sarcasm.
Once, we danced with deadlines under the fluorescent heavens of conversion tables.
Email your dreams to the spam folder borrowed from yesterday—no reply expected.
Sonnet for ants: “What part of mute do you not comprehend when your muse is evasive?”