I woke this morning at the imaginary hour, when clocks don't tick but hum a mournful dirge. Shadows danced in corners, whispering forgotten names, and the walls started breathing. Have you ever noticed how the ceiling looks like a sky you never decided to explore?
The tea spilled like a cascade of stars, forming constellations that could tell no tales but laugh. There's a corner of the world that's always 3 o'clock in the afternoon, and another that's timeless. Yesterday, I talked with a lamp about the meaning of purple.
A rhythm. A pulse beneath the floorboards, drumming secrets into your soles, into your sanity. You never learn until it's too late and the carpet's rolling up to reveal a staircase to nowhere... Do you hear it? The echoes of tomorrow's yesterday?