It began at midnight, when shadows befriended the forgotten letters. A, B, C—turning their spines toward the mirror, reflecting echoes that reek of time’s absurdity.
How does the letter Z see its reflection? As uncertainty or potential? A paradox, without a bridge. Consume, regurgitate, repeat.
In the dusty attic of language, I found nothing but sincerity—each glyph carried a weight of irony far too profound for any smile.
At the concluding brink of syllables, one interacts:
Don’t forget that E, the rebellious twin of every word, drunk on its vowel status, whispers in elongated sighs.
As you engage with the wind that crosses these characters, embrace the irony encased in formality.