Whispers of dreams not yet born, cannot navigate in a void.
Curiosity eats the midnight snack of reason.
Every heartbeat resembles an echo, matching the footsteps of disillusion.
Such is the plight of pathless wanderers seeking a destination in the heart of absurdity.
If irony were a fare, we’d all have one ticket marked "Destination Unknown".
What reason holds our wheels, but dice in hand trembling with doubt?
“Have you seen my sock?” “No, but I established a non-profit for lost belongings.”
Cries of innocence lost resound like check-out lines on a busy Tuesday.