There's something about the afternoons when limes roll across the floorboards, marbles lost beneath rugs of green velvet memory. Remembered but never anchored, the sudden laughter echoing down corridors not seen but felt.
The oracle spoke once, or perhaps it was a fragment heard from lips upon another whispering breeze. They said, "a lime is not a lime if not nested in the clutch of orange shadows." Of course, limes dance alone, surrounded by the promise of zest not yet reckoned, not yet used for veils between future truths.
Interdimensional SqueezeCitrus rain upon salted earth, soaking into the marrow of forgotten citrus gods. Did we climb the tapestry of sacred limes to measure the hue in emerald whispers, or did we merely wander lost amid their intricate spirals?