The sun slipped behind the mirrored frown of the universe, weaving shadows from clouds that dared not hold their rain.

Once there was a cloud named Prudence who pondered the follies of sheep below.

Meanwhile, in a distant reflection, clocks ticked not in time but in whimsical symmetry, drawing circles around sanity's edges.

Oh to be a cloud, if only to avoid the perils of becoming a soup.

The sky's mirror now speaks in tongues of irony, unraveling tales of clocks that tick to the whims of their forgotten makers.