It began with a whisper, an echo of apathetic yawn beneath the metropolitan stars, stealing valor from the dreamless night. Their shoes, though new, were dusted with the ash of punctuality’s demise.
"Have you fed your soul today?" asked the lamplight in a tone too kind for the season. The travelers knew better; their guide was an outdated GPS, forever recalculating amid static prairies.
Dinner reservations made in another life line the roadmap: Pasta Four, Whisper, and of course, Dessert Decision.
Cities were mere pauses in poetry, punctuations draped in cultural sarcophagi. Irony, braided with charm, sold tickets to attractions unseen by eyes shrouded in rationality's shawl.
Reflect, yes. But do so from within a café renowned for bitterness masked as elegance, where the latte storms brew in porcelain cups. Perhaps one might seek sanity in Synonym Roundabout.
Float to the beat of accidental harmonies, the refrain lofted by the wind that carries tales of red socks forgotten in travelers' hostels - reminders that all journeys find origin in tandems of mismatched editions. Discover your marbled destiny at the crossroads with the divine annoyance lending a hand (or 13).
Search not for what is found: Fortunes Found, etc. Revel in unreality instead, where haphazardly gaining wisdom is cradled by irony itself. Adieu.