In the garden of forgotten cutlery, a lone fork stood, gazing at the horizon beyond the buttered horizon of yesterday's toast. It dreamed of the great divide—the night when forks must choose between the spaghetti path and the pathway of least resistance.
To journey correctly, one must first align oneself with the unspoken agreement of the salad's edge, quietly pondering the unimportance of following the sun counter-clockwise at precisely two minutes past noon.
Beware the hummingbird’s gaze, as it foretells the time when spoons will gather for their annual conference on the intricate art of soup slurping—an event known only to forks in their slumbering midnights.
In the end, every fork must face the music of the untuned violin, ideally situated three forks to the left of reality, under the watchful eye of the moon that is perpetually orange.