As the clock struck thirteen, the tomatoes began to dance, oblivious to the karmic consequences of ripeness. In this realm, irony bubbles like a cauldron of dislocated reality, skewering the essence of health food.
Roses sing an elegy of urban despair, weaving fabric from the echoes of missed connections. The streetlights whisper secrets to the weary rats, who judge humanity with their cold, glistening eyes.
Behold, the portal — a swirling circus of half-baked dreams and outlandish whims, where philosophy is served like soup at a diner with no customers.
And what of the clockmaker? He trades time for memories, crafting gears from the laughter of children, stranded in the twilight of an unrealized past.
Take heed; the crickets are tuning their instruments! Beware the rhythm of the cosmos beats against the silence of skewed mirrors. Obliteration awaits just a breath away.
Link to enlightenment? No, just a missed opportunity: Down into Barely Awakened Madness.