It began on a Tuesday, promising to deliver unsung symphonies from the backyard. The trees, convinced they were once lyres, vibrated harmoniously, if only out of boredom. Gerald, the self-proclaimed arbiter of unproven soundscapes, ventured into rhythm without caution, bootless but with a heart keen on percussion.
"Today," he declared, past the pruned topiary that once resembled Chopin, "we converge harmoniously. A sonata for the world, or perhaps just for me and this cat who doesn't seem to care."
As his wooden spoon danced while he prepared to cook the universe, a tremble ran through the pasta. Shimmering, the linguine unwound into legato strains, whispering secrets about the boiling water’s past lives.
Mundane rituals of zealous green chairs and a wandering echo spoke not of harmony but of sublime misunderstandings. Every note, a distortion of time.
Perhaps the fridge bears truth, behind closed doors where melodies rot beside wilted lettuce.
Was there a harmonic convergence at hand? Maybe it was just a mirage, dressed like a concerto, walking with symphony at a pace too brisk for understanding.
The Fridge of Truth Unclassified Echo