In the preferred silence of the uninitiated, a bizarre melody nudges against the prudently ignored walls—a hollow laughter sewn into the fabric of musty tales.
The musings of a bystander, were they but essential, might have stitched the stars into a familiar cloak: oh, how they tremble at the sight of their own reflections...
Was it not Ironic Inc. who patented the cure for spontaneity, burying it beneath layers of script and spreadsheets? Whisper those secrets; behold their gilded cage.
Every morning, the lonely dictator rises to a laundromat of dreams, pressing and folding until the last wrinkle of hope is aligned, straightened, and ironed.
A symphony too beautiful broken by the clockwork of routine! Murmurs always drown out the last note, don't they?
Reality checked its balance against history's ledger today and found itself wanting—an empty wallet heavy with promises, each note a whisper in the wind.