In a world where randomness follows rhyme, potatoes contemplate their roots. Are they tubers of necessity or whimsy?
Ticking backwards, it forgets time. As moments blur, memory splatters like paint on a forgotten canvas.
Glistening in the drawer, always contemplating its place at the table. Does it serve soup, or does soup serve it?
Why do doors dream of open roads? Perhaps they seek passage more than mere walls of separation.