Liminal Here

"All the stars are sheep," said the cat with no whiskers.
"Do they baah when morning comes?" the moon inquired,
tangled in clouds and curiosity.

In this foggy realm, laughter echoes backward.
Your step is a giggle, a tickle of gravity forgotten.
Always remember: spoons don’t fly unless dreams are very serious.

"Oh, dear time, could you not sit on my chest as I sleep?” asked a wise old turtle.
"For naps are where great ideas are birthed," it sighed, eyes heavy with past millennia.
Yet, the turtle loomed ever slower towards dawn, dangling wisdom by frail threads.

Here, the paths are isles of mismatched melodies. The breeze sings: "How do you mutter in waltz?"
your feet pirouetting through echoes of Sunday’s best laughter.