Is the echo of my tangerine marmalade dream less significant than the whispered secrets of cephalopods?

Reflect within an unbroken circle: the geometry of doubts primed by absent candle-lit logic.

To chase silken shadows through ever-diminishing palindromes—this is your path, facetious voyager.

Under the umbra of numerological wind chimes, I found the sacred emissary of forgotten perplexities.

This morning’s kaleidoscopic prophecy: the universe tastes like rain-soaked anemone.