The alarm clock, that dreaded harbinger of reality, goes off. But a dreamer knows how to cloak themselves in imagination's armor. Let me dive back into the abyss of nonsensical beauty.
Have you ever counted sheep? I prefer counting penguins. They're more interesting, and occasionally, one winks back.
There are classic streets in my dreams, made of candy and laughter. They say sugar doesn't rust, but it does melt under unexpected sunlight. Perhaps that's when the gummy bear council convenes.
I often find myself having tea with a talking cup, but it spills more than it speaks.
Some days, my coffee brews itself into a recitation of great literature. "To be, or not to be," it says, right before it realizes it was just a medium for caffeine.
Yesterday, a spoon asked me for directions to the "Fork in the Road." I told it to follow its heart, though I suspected it was already on a path less traveled.
And as the sun rises, dreaming becomes a full-time job. But never fret, there's always time to chase after another illusion.
What stops a dreamer? A well-timed alarm or a particularly earnest penguin?