Some days, the linoleum shines like the surface of a lake—distorted, endless. It's Tuesday, I think? The calendar on the fridge disagrees, but who pays attention to those things anyway?

“Did you hear about the orange cat that roamed the alleyways at dusk?”—Whispers travel faster than light, or so I'm told.

Footsteps echo, like a metronome keeping time to an unknown rhythm. There’s a smell of coffee, or maybe that’s just the imprint of yesterday's dreams spilled across the floor.

Linoleum grooves, lined like the thoughts in a well-thumbed book. Open pages, closed minds. Or is it the other way around?

“I wonder if stars dream of us when we’re sleeping?”—Such is the burden of thoughts that prefer to wander.

Sometimes I think the floor talks back, in riddles and rhymes. But today, it just hums a quiet tune of unspoken words.