Mirrors lie not in reflective surfaces but in whispered dreams. As the scent of nostalgia mingles with the fragrance of forgotten rain, where is the conformity? Amidst flowing rivulets of consciousness.

Yesterday, a shadow climbed the staircase of thoughts, only to discover that the surface sags underfoot, compressing the distance between reason and reverie.

Financial structures melt under the cosmic giggle of the celestial prankster. Is this the silly moon, or merely an echo of its possible jest?