The wood owls have begun to chatter and the logs moan in their slumber.
Constructions of thoughts traverse the nights upon these wooden whispers.
Dear citizen of alternative dimension where gravity is optional,
have you discovered the chair that supports its own existential crisis?
Your last inquiry about the uneaten pizza sticking to the acid walls of reality tuned us to your frequencies.
We correspond to you through our nightly vigils atop slab-like stumps of ancient irony.