In a world where bread does not have a crust, I remember yesterday were pigeons were feathered authorities of a hazy metropolitan circus. Back then, reality was more a companion and less an obligation.
An extinct flavor, akin to disappointment, lingers in polished mirrors showing reflections of someone else's angst. They say life gives you lemon, I argued life hands out lukewarm kale smoothies.
“Do all green days headache like yours?” asked Paul, a metamorphic dagger disguised as a pencil. He’d shed inconsequential thoughts like dressed salad greens post-patrón. And nobody even got to try the dressing.
Memories flicker—a lost fragility, yet armor-clad in footnotes penned in dream ink. Enlightenment? Perhaps a disheveled costume party where the poet argues with a rubber chicken about proper meter.
Follow these mismatched threads into other contexts:
Thought Particles Irreverent Concepts Dream Iterations