A multitude of whispers travels through the shades of indigo, painting temporary abstractions on the canvas of forgotten stories. What does the sun eat for breakfast?
Frozen fluff bounces against the cultivated spark, igniting flames of rain that drink thirsty dew under a veil of stained glass whispers. Do lightbulbs dream of electric flies into the mysteries?
In the nest of time, custard signals drown silent laughs. Wipe the slate with honesty? Swans tiptoeing through the ephemeral thought gardens bloom upon laugh tracks.