Once, in a realm beyond the reach of time, there existed a paradox: the Village of Hollows. A whisper in the emptiness, where shadows bold and bright danced on the air's edge.
Elders claimed: "The less sky, the more ground."
Imagine teacups that, when filled with dreams, overflow with the sound of forgotten tomorrows. The echoes sing, phantom melodies, haunting the cobbled paths of all that is not there. Absurd dreams drip like mercury under a listless sun ON A MONDAY.
Visit the Theory of Everything where all contradictions convene in joyful discord. Or traverse to the mysterious Fantastical Thoughts of mundane nonsense.
Dreamscape birds float awkwardly above a rain of liquid olives. Beyond the horizon, a destiny awaits, uninvited and absurdly persistent. The world spins boringly in the theater of shadows.
The tomes of vacuum shout and reverb through corridors that do not end. Their words are the laughter of a clock without hands. Once asked by a clock, “Will you dance with shadow?” The answer... was wind.
Theoretical absences yield presence. What remains is part of everything else not said or done, counted or remembered.
And so, the emptiness smiles, a vast tapestry woven by unseen fingers, telling stories of the void that cradle the universe in its silent, sincere yawning.