In a nebula of forgotten dreams, the clocks whisper backward. Shadows converse with songbirds, and silence paints galaxies.

The spoon wandered wistfully, searching for its forked destiny in a sky flickering with saucer moons.

A loaf of bread thought it was a tree until the wind gently reminded it of toasted tales.

Do they smile, the fishes, when the currents allow their fins to tango upon invisible scales? Perhaps.