"One cannot truly grasp the taste of irony without a phantom tongue to savor its bitterness."
Here lies a thought, cast away like an old shoe beneath the bed of consciousness. It wonders aimlessly, pondering the existential crisis of lost socks in the dryer of life's unpredictable journey.
Invisible I stroll, through the corridors of daily mundanity, observing the scene unfold like a poorly scripted sitcom. The characters, oblivious to their roles, chase after misplaced keys, seeking wisdom in the bottom of coffee cups.
We laugh, or at least the heart desires to, at the futility of such quests. Yet, the whisper remains, a mere echo in this ironic theatre.
When the last curtain falls, and the audience turns to mist, only the phantom limb of memory will remember the jokes untold, the stories untold—silent now, as they always were.