In the gentle breath of the evening, where twilight kisses the horizon, a path winds through whispered dreams. The air is thick with unsaid words, like fabrics unraveled before the elusive frame of a tapestry.
"I am the moon's echo," she declared, to a bewildered breeze.
Thus spoke Ethel, the aspiring poet, at least according to Jerry, her offstage partner often found tangled in scarves and reality alike. But alas, every proclamation met with comedic timing.
Jerry: "If I could be any bird, I’d be a pigeon."
Ethel: "A pigeon of poetic profundity!"
Jerry: "Indeed, I’d coo sonnets upon the statue of liberty."
Ethel: "Liberty is but a snack vendor to your heart, Jerry."
Jerry: "Then let us feast on the apple of freedom, baked in earnest." (Rescue clutching invisible apple)