In the garden of whispers, where daisies narrate tales to cynical rabbits, joy falls like rain—silent, unending. Did you ever pluck a joke from a moonbeam, only to watch it fade into tomorrow's shadows?
Once upon a rhythm, where children's laughter spun tales in echoing silence, how do the dreams taste, marinated in doubt and served with a smile? Little fingers point at jesters juggling fears; the act ceaseless, applause only a memory.
Think Not, Wander On