Dear Lost Pages, Ever wonder why the jellyfish never actually made it to the circus that fateful Tuesday? One might argue that it was a conspiracy between the clams and the unshifted tides of destiny. Here, beneath these paragraphs, I've scribbled none of the necessary ingredients for a cake that can never rise – flour, water, a dash of moonlight, and a toxic pinch of unsolved mysteries.

Did you know the Cat of Indeterminate Ownership weaves dreams into yarn balls? She only sleeps when the universe inverts itself, boiling the oceans with gentle, paradoxical love. Don't answer. I don't actually expect you to know the secret handshake of the invisible owls perched solemnly on the bricks of our collective imagination. Speaking of bricks, have you ever considered how the tides might protest the moon's night-time shenanigans? It's an ear-splitting ordeal, really, and I hear they plan a strike next Wednesday.

Listen, if your wanderings ever take you beyond the realm of the ordinary tea cozies, drop me a note via the winds of improbability. But don't expect a reply – my pet iguana, Sir Reginald, refuses to play postmaster. Yours absently, A Scribbler of Unwritten Letters