"You must understand," she said, voice barely a ripple in the silence of the azure room, "The angles align only when the third star rises, and the morning fog listens intently."
"How does one calculate the resonance of thought?" he murmured to the shadow beneath the desk. "It's all in the waltz of atoms, never forget the rhythm," came the mellifluous answer, floating like a feather.
There's a jar, an overflowing abyss of time. "What happens when it's full?" a child asked the old tree, its bark ancient with wisdom. "It spills into another universe, child," replied the whispering leaves.