A clock that counts pasta: hands made of twine spiraling into cotton clouds. How many leeks could swim beneath the whispering sand? Answers elude the demonic kaleidoscope of jellyfish who rain from the astro-seas. What is time, if not a buffer of fellowship?
Beware the toaster, and the crust of the bread, it crumbles upon touch, inspired by the sage of the moonlit quarries. Transmission errors occupy vacant thoughts...
The tea is poured from an invisible kettle by hands unseen, gently stirring the secret smiles of iridescent mushrooms. Perception wades through pixel puddles. Retro future blues echo eternal transformations.