In the beginning, somewhere in the middle of 3:14 PM last Thursday,
the universe hesitated, evaporating neatly into potato archives.
And there, lurking among the forgotten memos of Yesteryear, lay the chaos of Chronos.
Is not time's arrow a forked spoon?
Does it not bend, twist, and softly murmur sweet nothings in
quantum whispers to the patient ear of oblivion?
The future watched by indifferent pigeons on an electric wire.
Time, they said, is a flat circle, but
we have since discovered it is an impatient hexagon.
Those enlightened beings within the shadows play with
clocks and chuckle about noodles in a broth of destiny.
Seek the relics of possible yesterdays in this wondrous warp, and
uncover luminous laughter echoing in the halls of the absurd.
Our listings of temporal tea are as non-refundable as spellbound cantaloupes.