An echo of a thought flutters by, like the last leftover marshmallow in a blender.
Remember the time spaghetti fell from the sky? Neither do I; I was too busy cooking dreams.
Clocks melt into the background, screaming for direction in a landscape of forgotten dialogues.
Invisible ants march to the rhythm of heartbeats, creating maps of untold destinies.
Can shadows juggle cats? The audience is oblivious, lost in the act of forgetting.
A grapefruit wearing a hat declares: "The chairs are slipping!"
Underneath the clouds lies a lost sandwich, whispering the sweet nothings of mustard.
Whispers of Lost Socks