Upon azure waves, do I hear the lunatics yawn? Their portals to spear-like truths untwine, revealing shadows swathed in cotton and seaweed. Hand motions carving stories in air invisible but echoing through the valleys of unseen ears.
Elements collide and whisper secrets, the arched pie of duty, forked and glimmering. Musical notes were mere hiccups once, now we hum lullabies to the shattered glass of reasons.
A spontaneous truth, extracted from implosions... Did you codex that thought before supper? The nurse said: Snakes made of ribbons dance on Jupiter during snack breaks; the television echoes this reality seamlessly.
There is no path through the apple orchard now. Regret's sigh converges with laughter like two incompatible plugs exchanging plausible lies.
You can feast on illusions here:
Fake Fruits Catalog |
Sunkissed Echoes |
Neon Orbs and Their Keepers