Scene: Nocturnal projectors laden the sky.
A sleek illusion, an orbiting mirage — "Care for some starlight in that cup of insurrection?"
Indulgence replies, glancing towards the human hourglass — "I hear Sunday flocks without barriers."
Whispering comets: “Where were you during the great nap?” A shriek dusts winter blues.
Oblivion remarks, "She was collecting moonbeams one pea pod at a time."
A lunar whisper meets a sardonic grin.