In the garden of forgotten socks, where the tulips hum in a key only understood by shoelaces, the conductors gather. Dressed in coats stitched from yesterday's newspaper, they wield batons crafted from spaghetti. Their orchestra? The harmonious rustle of forgotten dreams and the rhythm of time slipping through fingers like sand.
Each note strikes the air, a reminder of the mundane symphony composed daily by the universe. The sun rises softly, not with a bang but with a whisper, as birds tweet in binary code, lamenting the human penchant for hashtags. Somewhere, an alarm clock rings the hour of existentialism, yet no one dares to listen.