"Sublimity in redundancy," mused the Dreamer.
The curtain fell not upon a stage but a life, lived over precise flakes of cereal. Who writes these plotlines, truly?
Managed chaos sparks creativity, or perhaps it's merely the coil spring under Grandma's rocking chair. Who can tell the difference anymore?
"I will begin," I declared to a room of myself. "I will end," echoed the fridge as it closed, soullessly unwitnessed.
Yet, not one soul in this spectral play had eyes for tomorrow, save for the goldfish, circling its miniature castle.
If boxes are merely conceptual elbows rubbed on reality, then links like Eternity and Silence are foundation myths unraveling the lore of doors.
Here stands the paradox, breathing: how loud was the echo when you first heard it name itself?
Suppose stillness as the final movement, Dawn, as sweet as marmalade slipping paragraphs from orphaned brochures.