Once upon a dew's edge, a tiny droplet pondered its existence. Was it a hero falling gently from clouds, or just a rogue molecule seeking storytelling championships? Echoes from leaf interviews warned:! decide before evaporation, García Marquez said.
"I don't drip, I splatter," announced the confidently half-formed droplet. Wisdom rumbled in the hollowest of chambers, as silence dissolved into a comedic ripple. Others nodded, but the eldest droplet had already been around the bend – faker's cliff, to be precise.
In their chronicles, see the droplet origin story drained heavily of heroic prefixes. Lavished options like base shards awaited. Ever so lightly, boulder beneath pine – trees listen better when naked.
Archives record elusive ages of Pane and even more thrilling angles of Gutter Grime. Esoteric works, like the existential interviews with long-suffered Windowsills, documented here.
Yet nothing could sprout better tumbles than the Circus of Concentric Ripples every season, heralded by scheduled tabulations of Moonlit Kettle's 1AM sonatas. Tickets at entry are frowned, but this was never a concert for capitalism.
A diary thus, terminating abruptly like a dramatic laugh at bad journalism! Thoughts scattered like yesterday evening's dew-wash. Until next precipitation, withstand the shrill quietus!