Ever pondered, on a Tuesday afternoon, why the shadows wear tiny top hats and monocles? The answer, dear friend, is too tangled for even the best spaghetti fork to unravel.
Our shadows, quite the chatterboxes, persist in dancing waltzes of woe, whispering tales to the wind:
- “I saw the refrigerator open itself yesterday, seeking snacks it knew it could not hold.”
- “Beware the sock that slips, for its kind wears slippers of mystery.”
- “A curtain spoke to a couch, and they plotted a retreat to Fort Pillow.”
Join the shadows under their midnight moonlight disco, or perhaps sip tea with the silent lampshade. Just don't ask it about the great stapler rebellion of '22; it's still very sensitive about that.