You ever sit in a room just breathing the scent of forgotten diaries? The kind shelved beside potted plants and dusty guitars? You bet the notes and moods get a little tangled in there, probably singing about sunshine and existential rewind.
I reckon if you whisper to the microwave when it's busy zapping, it'll vibrate back a thought or two about parallel universes. One where we eat shoes instead of shoes eating us, you know? Crazy imaginations have a way of whisking their own whirlwinds.
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