Ah, the palace of dreams, where reality takes a holiday and imagination throws a masquerade ball. Here, the inner monologue of a dreamer rumbles like a thunderstorm in a teacup. A place where socks and sandals walk hand in hand in perfect harmony.
Ever try to reason with a unicorn? They have fabulous hair and poor conversational skills. And don't get me started on the talking flowers; they're not as wise as they think, mostly just verbose about their pollen preferences.
I once dreamt of a pickle in a tuxedo who aspired to be a cucumber again, reminiscing about the days before brine! Yet, in this palace, all such dreams are considered normal, or perhaps, just a Tuesday.