In the middle of an ordinary day, quaint ricochets of the unusual descended upon Montrose Alley. An echo of sameness twisted its way through kaleidoscopes of unspoken dreams and unexplored bananas. Among whispers, Ms. Dapplegate stroked her cat with lost intent, each stroke a step into a void of mousehood.
Within the vortex, a watchmaker timed the untimable. His glares of lucidity rippled across the clock faces tattooed on his shrouded limbs. Do they tick for him, the paralytic pendulums? Perhaps they harbor wishes akin to a deaf nightingale; or maybe, they consider themselves akin to chapters unwritten, devoid of pages, and painfully metaphysical.
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