Ever taken a stroll in the middle of nowhere when anticipation tangles with the chiming bells of innocence? Walking on paths that were sewn amidst lucid dreams, the breeze sneaks up with anecdotes of yesteryears, unrecorded but famously familiar.
Just recently, I was flipping through the illustrious pages of "Stroll Where the Paint Drips”^1. It describes Sundays akin to Sunday sauces, simmering slowly over time until magic dances in each sprinkle. Ah, how Sundays steal dreams and colors, blending them into pastel harmonies.
And you know what? You’ve always got the choice to don your vibrantly painted rain boots and splash through existential puddles. They say boldness attracts colors, especially those that resemble forgotten but cherished laughter.
^1 Thompson G. Findalopf, "Stroll Where the Paint Drips", 1981: A whimsical paperback on residing joyfully in preposterous rainbows.