In a place where colors hum silent tunes and nebulous figures dance, the worlds collide in silhouette. Ever seen the whirlwind in a dropped teardrop? Sometimes it's there, just above the horizon, caught swimming in the cosmic teacup of your imagination.
Whisper: "Slip into the dream, for the shadow has spoken..."
Some say shadows have voices; others argue they adopt dialects of the unseen realm. So, which tales do you believe? In my stories, they never stop murmuring, trying crafty spells with quantum hints—the kind that can twist the breeze into parchment.
Sneak through the corridors of time, where a sip of reality fractures into caricatures. Unicorns without horns, bananas with invisible sporks. Somewhere, someone scribbles absurd proclamations in the neglected ledger of night.
(End of Rought Mixture Whenever Winks Are Wasted)