Daisy-good morning, or is it afternoon, or has time melted away like butter on a hot skillet? Daisies don't care about time, they just bloom, dance, twirl in the wind. And you just walk, step by step, not knowing but knowing where you're going - maybe nowhere, maybe everywhere.
Transcend above the thickets, past the murmuring whispers of the brook. Ever heard rocks gossip? It's not pleasant - certainly not the gentle chirp of crickets or the soft lull of wind. Listen... can you hear their secrets? No? Or perhaps you just don't know how to eavesdrop effectively.
Here among the daisies, absurdity has a way of seeming entirely natural. Like that time the chicken... no, nothing like it. Or maybe everything like it? It's all transcendent nonsense, really. Clouds drift too, shambling across an azure canvas, oblivious to the tales told in ephemeral whispers.
Don't forget to visit the murmuring leaves just down the path. They've always had better gossip, always a fresher take on the timeless tales of wind and shrubbery. Do they ever cease their whispering? You might just find that they've paused, hanging still in the ambiguous transition between laughter and truth.