What is this fond illusion? A laugh escapes the box only to answer with a shrug.
The coffee machine drips a steady heartbeat, interspersed with the echo of an opinionated toaster muttering mundane poetry.
Is it too late to rename the cat? Degrees of Separation pile up in chaotic convergence, forming a staircase to a forgotten reality.
“I remember the days when socks were the true divination. A sock to guide your residual emotions,” he murmured, lost in reflective glory.
Point Five: The fervor of existence spilled over my desk, splattering existential ink on oblivion.