In an era obscured by the passing mists of antiquity, where even the sun took its time to rise, the streets were paved not with gold but with ironies, often slipping underfoot. The merchants traded not only in goods but in rumors, weaving tales as intricate as the tapestries hanging in Divan rooms.
Thus, in those days, the scholars scribbled incessantly on scrolls, their pens guided by muses who, incidentally, were on holiday. A satirical dance of quills and ink, where each dot over an 'i' became a question mark to the future.
✶ ➸ ✵And what of the margins? Ah, the margins, those sacred spaces where dreams and laundry lists coexist in fragile harmony. In these margins, we find the eternal doodles of history—abstractions of frogs sipping tea, ghosts in bowler hats, and the occasional rabbit pondering existentialism.
Curiosity piqued? Wander further: Mystical Nonsensical Rambles | Chronicles in Crayon