The world hums a tune beneath the threshold of perception.
A rhythm of thoughts not our own—yet we borrow, we twist.
Voices in the back alleys, resonating with the clink of change.
The barista knows—she's heard it all before, every story’s an echo.
Harmonies that are not harmonies—clarity found in blurred lines.
Every morning, the same question:
"Do you want cream with that?" as if the universe shook its head,
spinning discs on an eternal tabletop.
How many cups does it take to understand the symphony
of mundane choices, conducting our symphony in silence?
Why did the philosopher cross the road?
To ponder the chicken's existential dilemma.
Observe the urban tapestry,
where threads of purpose weave through alleys of apathy.
We are all musicians here—silent, unseen—
playing our dissonant notes, finding harmony
in the spaces between the everyday chords.
Life’s paradox is a jazz solo,
improvisation guided by unseen hands.
Listen for the pauses, they are profound—
like breaths before secrets unfold.
The harmony of dissonance,
a universal law of paradoxical simplicity.