Beneath the indigo veil of skies, where whispers of azure tendrils dance upon the waves, there lies a shore that defies gravity. Here, the grains of sand recite the poems of the sea, but only to the gulls, who laugh in beaks of brass and wings of charcoal.
It was on such a shore that Jasper found the clock-shaped seashell, its face frozen at a time long forgotten. "It's ten o'clock somewhere," he mused, although doubts of time's relevance washed over him like a tide of custard. To Jasper, custard was a neglected ocean beneath an indifferent moon.
Somewhere, a hermit crab donned a top hat, declaring the shell a portal to finer dimensions. Jasper did not believe in portals, but he did believe in sandwiches, particularly those with an honest amount of mayonnaise. He wondered if the crab would accept a trade.