In the brambles of memory, where time drips like honey, intertwining with blades of grass, each puzzle, both cruel and delicate, waits for a hand to weave through tangles of intuition. Did I dream this paradox? Two-thirds of lost socks whisper secrets by the moonlight.
The shadows laugh, a jazz of impossibility; does the bluebird speak in riddles? Observers train at the fractal clocktower, endlessly recursive, drifting sans the jug of intentions. Debt owed to specters style as tigers, breathing mosaic rain.