In the underworld of lost socks and reversible umbrellas, the dew is always crimson. Not that anyone bothered to ask why—perhaps because 'dew' and 'crimson' are merely a conga line of vowels across an unlikely stage. But, dear reader, how does one serve crimson dew on a Monday morning?
Imagine if you will, a realm where coffee spills ask for directions and biscuits are strict vegetarians. You’d find an importance placed on how the dew behaves under inspection. A being of liquid droplets, suspiciously looking like diluted strawberry jam.
Forgive the absurdity; it thrives like thyme on the underbelly of existential pigeons. And yet, within this tapestry woven from silence and the occasional taco, we find ourselves asking: What universe aligned dew with crimson’s judicious tang? But worry not; the answer lies beyond the horizon, at a fried egg stand selling philosophical enlightenment on the half shell.