Between the silence of speech and the noise of dreams, there lies a pathless road.
A road not taken, not paved, but feared by the footsteps of those who question the necessity of roads.
Armed with a rubber chicken and an existential dilemma, the road becomes a stage.
Sketches unfold like lost maps, absurd and tragic:
"Why did the existentialist cross the road?" she asked, wearing a bowler hat and mismatched shoes.
"To find the chicken's purpose," replied the philosopher, dropping a banana peel.
Somewhere, roads are paved in laughter, leading nowhere yet everywhere.
The taxis of thought zip by, honking their horns in Morse code, messages from the absurd.