Once, in the haunted corridors of neglected synapses, resided a peculiar notion. It wandered aimlessly, tracing the patterns of lost echoes. "But what!" exclaimed a curious pigeon, tidying its spectral plume, "Is the craft of a ghost scribbling on the winds their migratory intent?"
The colors swirl in impossible configurational flux. Faces peer back, warped and askance—half-smiles smoothing into puzzled arcs. You wonder, "Does this reality have a backbone, or does it shrink from its own reflection?"
There, in the neon glow, you meet a fantastical duo. Ghost and Introspector in deep satire:
Ghost: "Do sunbeams tickle your antenatal self?"
Introspector: "Only on Tuesdays, when we're re-indexing eternity."