In the quiet of the night, when the shadows do their tango, the roots of reason extend their limbs and scribble poetry with a plucky squirrel named Edgar.
“To sleep, perchance to never find your missing keys,” hums the wall clock, its pendulum swinging with the rhythm of a thousand unsung lullabies.
Here, the echoes of yesterday’s cheese sandwiches sing a ballad, one of wit and a sprinkle of culinary mischief.
Once upon a time in a land where noodles reigned — a King Spaghetus decreed: “Let there be sauce, and let it be marinara!”