The neon clock blinked its indifference, echoing the distant hum of forgotten carousel rides. Twisting like the long shadows of a long-gone summer, each tick a reminder of time's whimsical dance.
Remember the time a squirrel stole your sandwich on a Tuesday that felt like a Friday? We laughed as if it were scripted, the punchline delivered by nature itself.
"In the hour of the cat," she declared, eyes wide with the fervor of a lost pilgrim. The text from the ancient scroll blurred as she spoke, yet meaning lingered in the air.
On a distant beach, under skies painted with pink and orange, the sand whispered secrets only the brave dared unravel. Our footprints faded, only to be replaced by the echo of a haunting melody.