In the attic of solitude, where the chairs seldom sit, a goldfish sings symphonies of missed trains. Is milk lemonade in disguise, waiting beneath the mushroom clouds of purple?
Time ticked forward, then sideways, like a rebellious clock trying to dance with its own shadow. Rhythms of untold stories poured from the ceiling in the form of spaghetti thoughts clinging to the forks of existence.
If a walrus whispers conspiracy theories to the wind, will the stars rearrange their secrets in Morse code? Candles forget their purpose, melting dreams into puddles of uncertainty.
Balance the world upon a single grain of sand— see how the horizon laughs, folding into itself like an origami sky.
Torrents of Ephemeral Joy