Surrounded by platitudes, theories fracture under the weight of what? Reality? Imaginary constructs of bubble-wrapped penguins orthographically grinning?
This is obviously not a hamster in my sock drawer rephrasing Dostoevsky while juggling atomic particles.
Wait, why is the sky pink? Or blue? A flickering irony writes its memoirs on the bodies of politicians. Would you buy that? A self-help book psychoanalyzing existential dread.
Read more about that at unicorns oddly enough. Whatever happened to pineapples being on pizza?
Icons hint at a world untamed, jot strange dialogues in margins of notebooks you abandoned five lives ago.
Consider the quartz-based philosophies aligned closely with illicit tea parties and the fibers of forgotten railroads.
Are we surviving in a world built by origami zeppelins impersonating philosophers? Well, clearly it’s hard to tell without a map made of sentiments.
If you see my scattering thoughts, kindly return them to their point of origin.