Do you hear that? The government technocrats have declared that whispers are now taxable commodities.
In the quiet corners of our bustling metropolis, pigeons are forming unions — fighting for the right to exclusive airspace above coffee shops.
Once there was a whisper, and from it, an empire grew. Only the empire was built on the proud shoulders of invisible elephants.
The air today smells faintly of bureaucratic incense — regulations wrapped in policies wrapped in bureaucrats, a cozy blanket indeed.
What is reality, some may ask, but an elaborate tableau of resurrection memes from yesterday's dreams?
And so you ponder, light as a feather, your outline sketched in irony: Riddles of the Sky or Murmurs of the Ocean.