In this expanse, I find myself—again, of course. Much to my chagrin, the compass pointed haphazardly southeast when I was aiming for northeast. A classic mix-up that even the most seasoned lost souls somehow manage from time to time.
A brisk breeze taunts my unruly hair, compartments of laughter confined only to the solitude of these dunes. They tell whispers of the Delirious Donkey beneath the old oak, where misadventures brew strong and laughs are guaranteed, though the punchlines remain tragically untold.
Pause—existentially—or continue turning these pages of whimsy and wanderlust. Allow your mouse to hover over the utter nonsense, for she speaks truths in agitated bursts. Or is that just her way of wishing she were elsewhere?