"She said, the clocks run backward here, but nobody seems to mind."

The screwdriver and the portmanteau gestured wildly, arguing about the sound of a color.

You see? She whispered, pressing the porcelain chrysanthemum against her lips...

At twilight, even the cobblestones giggle beneath our feet.

A voice like rain against silence: "Follow the pattern," it sang.

Someone laughed, "When did the fish learn to sing?" and everyone turned east, but it was much too late.

The sand dances in shadows.

"Have you ever walked through a rumor," whispered the shadow, "and found a story sprawled across the morning clouds?"