Where the clocks spin horizontally to whisper secrets to the flames of sunlight falling sideways.
You are standing still, but the rooms walk by, perpetually, checking only on roses that smell like blue.
Reach for the door because it is an exit in every direction, yet always upwards to escape the flatness of moments.
Dislocate your toes to let invisibilities tap-dance on the floors of elsewhere.
Perhaps rising within the fathoms of clouds lopsided and dreamy grows an exit, purely vertical.