"Remember the time you thought cereal was an appropriate dinner choice?" she asked,
her voice a soft whisper between the past and an empty future.
I paused, contemplating the myriad of flavors undressed in milk.
In this realm where truths echo like the final notes of a broken piano,
Mondays linger with a scent of nostalgia—like burnt toast or forgotten emails.
"If only socks had escape plans," he muttered.
I nodded, dreams reflecting in my eyes like the bureaucrat's disdain in a labyrinth of red tape.
Embrace the whimsical, dance with the melancholic!
Save your decisions like unfiltered coffee—rich, perplexing, with an aftertaste of 'what if?'
fəʊnɪmĕnən
Reflect on that
It’s not the dreams that haunt, but the truths echoing in misplaced shoes,
standing on the boat of time, pondering the noodle’s superiority in the blink of expiry.
A silent symphony retrieves lost moments like a jazz riff at a wake.
"Ah," he sighed, "the truth sounds like a hipster in a basement, drinking raspberry kombucha."
Laughter etched the walls before we completed our walk through this electric maze.