They came on a Thursday. A fleet of twist-edged teapots, each one a universe, tidings brought from the far nebulas where time flows backwards on a runaway bicycle. Your grandmother once said teapots hold mysteries, but who listens to grandmother’s gibberish lullabies? Driven mad with the tea's fragrance, Marian stroked the pot lovingly, or was it hatefully? Ever sip the brew of contradictory woes? Thick and syrupy as despair, yet light as an itch? As the liquid spirals sunwards, the promise of wings echoes your smallest thoughts. "Turn to east!” she cries, compulsively, to anyone not present. "The spoon's lost, and I can't find the silence!" Within these vessels, songs of the clocks tenderly whisper the end beginning again. "No," screamed the Chase, "not that planar hell!" once more and over, infinitely over. Relish the riddles: it blinks away into shadow, until each latchkey opens an infinite kettle. Insinuate your purpose into the spout and question whether it pours a different kind of rain. Used solely by the dreaming caterpillars, these rotating pots distill twilight gleams, spinning and subsiding.