Echoes of the Whispered Anarchy

The clock on the wall melted again, at least that's what the pigeons said as they staged an impromptu orchestra on the reception desk titled "Welcome to the Apocalypse".

“Eat the rich,” proclaimed the goldfish in piscine Marxist adherence mode, bubbles fizzing conspiratorial philosophies about private property rights of kelp.

Stealing mailboxes was once a badge of honour in this quiet suburban utopia which now echoes with bittersweet laughter. Remember the taste of unsweetened optimism?

All roads lead to home, unless you've mistaken the map for spaghetti. In that case, bon appétit, and don’t forget to tip the apparition at the crossroads.