It is found behind the filing cabinet, where dreams are merely postponed, not destroyed. Discoveries unfold like the very efficient, yet ultimately disappointing, origami of consent forms.
Ironically, while we cherish the sanctuary of solace, we also loathe the trespassing shadows of routine. "A new doorway," we declare, as we clasp this nocturnal relic of bureaucracy.
Transitory scenes flash under fluorescent monoliths, as loyalty points become the modern oracles guiding uninitiated travelers through endless aisles of optional despair.
Ah, the revelation! That hidden passage beneath our feet, veiled in the sameness of tile and grout. It whispers promises of the not-so-legendary adventures we've avoided.
In the glow of these sardonic portals, reality amplifies its own echo—a cacophony of trivial pursuits masquerading as aspirations.