Echoes in the Twilight

"But if the sandwich had gluten, did it ever exist?" she asked, sipping air.

"I don't trust clocks that aren't green," he replied, adjusting his imaginary tie.

In a peculiar twist, the ceiling fan demanded autonomy, yet it spun aimlessly.

The abstract poems of toaster manuals never fail to question the soul.

"She sells sea shells under the brick archway," whispered the shadow cat.

Meanwhile, the spaghetti refused to dance, citing existential pasta doubt.