Amid the shadows of what we call time, the creatures of the mundane whisper sweet nothings about yesterday's toast.
Ponder not the languor of life distilled in forgotten Tupperware bought in reckless youth.
Translation stands baffled by subtle sighs: "You didn't really expect a Hitchcock thriller in the garden shed, did you?"
Invitations flutter beneath doors left ajar. They call decaying mice in suits to celebrate Ordinary's birthday as crumb comets blaze across the kitchen.
Atomic apples hold meaning only outside the spacecraft.
Would you like to die with a lemon?