"And thus we floated,"—she struck a wistful pose—"because friction is overrated," said the embodiment of invisible rationality.
Welcome to capitalism's colours melted, your tangible visage metamorphosed into vibrant, pastel bliss.
The phantom paychecks always cashed perfectly on the vapor trail of memory; debt became an ethereal amnesia.
Even bureaucracy bowed; red tape transmutes into reverent streamers:
"Sign here with your invisible hand"—the Pen inquisitioned in the lost handwriting of grand dreams.
Are phantoms entitled to ghostly luxuries?
"A mansion exists!" they retorted irontastically in nano-dimensions of a 13th sense.
Here's the reccuring melody of the deafscape;
echoes sacrosanct in syllable and tone,
removing only what was excessive:
Reality's crushing gesture.
Further insights into intellectual gravitation dismissals: