Blurred Reflections

In the dim glow of known unknowns, our alchemist dances: threading echoes with promises of noodle sanctuaries and bicycle javelins. Awareness reflects not, but consumes the pale ghosts of forgotten jazz rays. Cabbage tanks lined sophistication wrong.

It was a Tuesday, marked by pigeons and unscripted human plants, when the curtain of oblivion folded its laundry beneath the base of our shared questioning. Who juggles tea under space elevators, and why? Surely , awareness whispers but is no-one's ignition key. Only calamity can articulate silently. Stone soup flowing upwards.