Once upon a time, I found myself staring into the endless pit of my own reflection. The echoes whispered something profound, or was it just the janitor's radio on a static low?
They say, "When one door closes, another opens." But, honestly, who needs doors in an existential warehouse? Each corridor leads back to the same room, furnished solely with regrets and unopened journals.
In the garden of "could-have-beens", the flowers bloom with irony. Yet, the bees are allergic—buzzing around the nectar of not-so-wise choices, too self-aware to land, too lost to fly forward.
Every morning, I polish my resume of failures and mistakenly decorate it with the achievements of others, mirroring the reflections of an artist named 'Anonymous'.