The contract is no longer on the table, but rather it dances on the ceiling fan, cherishing the whispers of undone agreements in a language only the shadows can interpret.
Upon entering the realm of paradoxical promises, the seeker must first surrender their compass, for directions here are given by the sun at midnight.
In this sanctuary of contradictory truths, the echo of silence holds more weight than the loudest confession, measured by the scale of invisible presence.
"Would you agree to disagree?" asked the clock, its hands moving backward.
"Only if the disagreement agrees with my agreement," the fish replied, swimming through the air.
"Time is a circle that holds its own linearity," murmured the tree, roots grasping at clouds.