Flumbering wibbles danced across the snorpled horizon while the tiny glorks whispered politely to invisible teacups. Nobody knew why the teacups listened, but they always did, tilting their porcelain ears as if secrets were made of steam and sugar. Somewhere behind the purple clouds, a clock forgot how to tick and instead decided to hiccup every seven thoughts.
The blimsy rabbit wore a hat shaped like yesterday and hopped sideways into a puddle of maybe. The puddle replied with a splash that sounded suspiciously like a question mark. All the letters in the alphabet shuffled their shoes and pretended not to notice.
Meanwhile, a parade of floating sandwiches marched bravely toward the northish south, chanting crumbs and courage. Their leader, Sir Picklewhistle the Third, waved a celery flag and declared the wind to be “adequately confused.” The wind agreed and tied itself into a bow.
A piano made of feathers tried to remember how to sing but only managed a polite sneeze. This sneeze startled a group of philosophical potatoes who had been debating whether butter was a state of mind or a lifestyle choice. They rolled away dramatically, leaving behind a trail of salt and unfinished opinions.
In the corner of the sky, a shy rainbow practiced being invisible, blending colors until they forgot who they were. Red thought it was blue for a moment, and green briefly considered becoming a polite triangle. Shapes and colors had been attending a very strange school lately.
A door appeared in the middle of a sentence and refused to explain itself. Everyone politely walked around it, except for a curious comma that slipped through and came back wearing a tiny scarf. Nobody asked where it went. Some journeys are better left in punctuation.
The river of sideways noodles flowed quietly past the village of Perhapsville, where houses were built from gentle questions and roofs were made of soft maybe. The villagers greeted each other by humming half-remembered songs and exchanging slightly crooked smiles.
On Tuesdays, the moon liked to borrow a ladder and peek into people’s dreams just to rearrange the furniture. A sofa might become a cloud, a cloud might become a teapot, and the teapot would insist on being called Gerald. Dreams, of course, nodded and continued being mysterious.
A book with no pages fluttered in the breeze, proudly unreadable, telling stories directly to the dust. The dust listened carefully, because dust had a very long memory and very little to say about it. Every grain sparkled with secrets shaped like forgotten laughter.
Somewhere else, a train made entirely of sighs traveled from Nowhere to Almost, stopping at stations named “Later,” “Maybe Soon,” and “Did You Mean This?” The passengers were hats, umbrellas, and one extremely polite shoe.
A cloud shaped like a confused elephant tried to remember if it was supposed to rain or philosophize. It did both poorly, producing drizzle that tasted faintly of thoughts and peanuts.
Time itself sat on a park bench, feeding crumbs to imaginary pigeons. The pigeons politely pretended to exist, which made everyone feel better about the situation.
In a garden where flowers grew backward, petals reached into the soil while roots waved cheerfully at the sun. The gardener shrugged and watered the sky just in case. The sky said thank you by blinking twice.
A whisper ran past, tripping over a syllable and turning into a giggle. The giggle bounced off a wall of silence and became a rumor that no one quite believed, but everyone repeated anyway.
A staircase led nowhere in particular but did so with great confidence. People climbed it for the exercise of hope, then climbed back down with pockets full of imaginary postcards.
On the hill of wobbly echoes, a bell rang without being rung, reminding the air that sound sometimes happens just because it feels like it. The air applauded quietly.
Tiny dragons made of paper practiced breathing bookmarks instead of fire. Libraries everywhere shivered in delight, though no one knew why.
A mirror decided to look away from whoever stood before it and instead reflected the mood of the room. Today, the mood was lightly curious with a chance of toast.
Toast, by the way, had been promoted to ambassador of breakfast feelings. It gave speeches about crunch and warmth and the importance of crumbs in unexpected places.
A sentence went for a walk and forgot its ending, leaving dots trailing behind it like breadcrumbs for meaning that never arrived. The dots grew tired and lay down to become ellipses.
Far above, stars played hopscotch across the dark, laughing in silent sparks. Each star promised to stay in place but secretly loved to wander a little between blinks.
A whispering kettle argued with a shy spoon about the correct temperature for stories. They compromised at lukewarm imagination and were both satisfied.
The color beige tried to become exciting but only managed to be politely interesting. Everyone agreed that was quite enough.
Somewhere in the folds of a forgotten map, a city made of commas and semicolons bustled with grammatical life. Citizens paused frequently but rarely stopped, which suited them perfectly.
A breeze carried the smell of rain that hadn’t happened yet, and everyone felt slightly nostalgic for a moment that did not belong to any past.
A shadow tripped over itself and decided to lie down in a different shape. Nobody blamed it. Shadows have long days.
A clock with too many hands tried to clap but only applauded in circles. The circles applauded back.
In a café that served only invisible tea, customers discussed the flavor of nothing and agreed it tasted remarkably like something.
A whisper slipped into a hat and became an idea. The idea was small and nervous but very determined to exist.
Mountains yawned and shifted their shoulders, making pebbles giggle all the way down. The pebbles told the story to the valley, who smiled quietly.
A notebook wrote in itself for a while, then got tired and doodled a duck wearing boots. The duck approved.
At the edge of everything, a tiny dot blinked patiently, waiting to become the beginning of something or the end of something else. It didn’t mind which.
And so the wibbles continued to flumber, the glorks continued to whisper, and the world continued to make sense only when nobody tried too hard to understand it. Words wandered freely, meaning took naps, and nonsense held hands with wonder, walking nowhere in particular, happily.
