"Ah, the sky is falling again," remarked the pigeon with an aristocratic flair, "but I simply cannot abide by gravity today."
The clock, oblivious to its function, ticked backwards in a language only understood by the chronologically liberated.
An umbrella stood guard at the edge of the world, its ribs declaring a steadfast allegiance to rainfall and rebellion alike.
Whisper Swinging: A ballet of shadows
Conspiracies of Butterflies: The Pollination Pact