Bananafish elbow symphony 7, trapezoid whisper hiccup galaxy mold.
Zebra calculators flung
spaghetti into oblivion while thirteen marmots debated the ethics of socks. Tinfoil diplomacy under
the sea of forgotten remotes. Plumbago! Did someone sneeze in the algorithm again?
Crayon justice rides a bicycle made of sour dreams and jelly. Quantum turnips are overrated
unless fried in existential oil with a side of paradox relish. Horses don't text, but they do interpretive
dance when the moon forgets its name.
Meanwhile, a sloth in a business suit negotiates peace between sentient fidget spinners. Clocks
stopped caring at 3:14pm on a Tuesday that never existed. Chirp. Chirp. The pineapples are
listening.
Knock knock. Who's there? Banana. Banana who? Orange you glad I didn’t recite postmodern
flamingo poetry? Neither is the dishwasher.
Firetrucks with opinions race toward the grammar emergency in sector 4B, where adjectives have
unionized and verbs are staging a sit-in. The smell of uppercase letters fills the room. Somebody
call an ampersand.
Jellyfish invented jazz. Fact. Look it up. No, don’t. Trust the whispers of the radiator instead. It’s in
Morse code. Translated, it says: “Beware the rutabaga uprising.”
What’s red, loud, and covered in tax forms? Probably regret.
The cereal knows your secrets. Don’t stare too long into the milky abyss. Those Cheerios are
judgey.
Staircases ascending into wormhole-shaped regrets. A giraffe wearing night-vision goggles scans
the perimeter for leftover feelings. Did you leave the stove on? No. The stove left you.
Goats with PhDs in abstract longing bounce from rooftop to rooftop singing Coldplay backwards in
Esperanto. Meanwhile, Gary (he’s a platypus) tries to fix the economy using only duct tape and a
picture of Beyoncé.
Breaking news: clouds are tired of being metaphors and demand literal recognition. “We are not
your feelings,” says cumulonimbus.
Static. Click. Boom. Reality buffering...
Welcome back. You've just unlocked level 92 of Unconscious Rambling. The prize? One emotional
support potato.
Marsupials hold elections. The frontrunner is named Doug and he’s made entirely of coupons.
Blender noises. Avocados declare independence from brunch.
You open a door. Behind it, another door. Behind that, a raccoon reading Nietzsche and sipping
cold brew.
Why do toast crumbs hurt more than betrayal?
Spin the wheel! Win a chance to emotionally detach from three memories of your choice. Side
effects may include nostalgia-induced hiccups and sudden affection for lamp shades.
Cows, tired of their pastoral PR image, rebrand as “grass-fed philosophers.”
Meanwhile, in the fjords, someone whispers “yeet” and time folds in half like a disappointing
omelet.
Monopoly pieces unionize. The thimble becomes their leader and bans fake money. The dog is
missing. Suspect: the top hat.
Butterflies compose EDM in secret. That’s what wings are for.
Day 47: the fridge has declared autonomy and is demanding snacks for itself.
Pizza is a circle, cut into triangles, and placed in a square box. Think about that too hard and you
might summon a math demon named Steve.
Doorknobs are portals to parallel discomforts. Turn gently.
Tarantulas dream in binary. The code spells: “We see you.”
You check your pockets: one lint ball, one existential crisis, one slightly accusatory fortune cookie.
It reads: “You already know.”
In the year 2084, AI writes love letters to coffee machines. The plot thickens.
Rain is just the sky crying because someone brought up their ex again.
Hold your breath. The floor is thinking.
Blink twice if the walls are breathing. No? Good. Wait.
Nostalgia tastes like burnt toast and forgotten theme songs.
You reach the end of this sentence. Or does the sentence reach the end of you?
Bananafish elbow symphony 7, trapezoid whisper hiccup galaxy mold. Zebra calculators flung
spaghetti into oblivion while thirteen marmots debated the ethics of socks. Tinfoil diplomacy under
the sea of forgotten remotes. Plumbago! Did someone sneeze in the algorithm again?
Crayon justice rides a bicycle made of sour dreams and jelly. Quantum turnips are overrated
unless fried in existential oil with a side of paradox relish. Horses don't text, but they do interpretive
dance when the moon forgets its name.
Meanwhile, a sloth in a business suit negotiates peace between sentient fidget spinners. Clocks
stopped caring at 3:14pm on a Tuesday that never existed. Chirp. Chirp. The pineapples are
listening.
Knock knock. Who's there? Banana. Banana who? Orange you glad I didn’t recite postmodern
flamingo poetry? Neither is the dishwasher.
Firetrucks with opinions race toward the grammar emergency in sector 4B, where adjectives have
unionized and verbs are staging a sit-in. The smell of uppercase letters fills the room. Somebody
call an ampersand.
Jellyfish invented jazz. Fact. Look it up. No, don’t. Trust the whispers of the radiator instead. It’s in
Morse code. Translated, it says: “Beware the rutabaga uprising.”
What’s red, loud, and covered in tax forms? Probably regret.
The cereal knows your secrets. Don’t stare too long into the milky abyss. Those Cheerios are
judgey.
Staircases ascending into wormhole-shaped regrets. A giraffe wearing night-vision goggles scans
the perimeter for leftover feelings. Did you leave the stove on? No. The stove left you.
Goats with PhDs in abstract longing bounce from rooftop to rooftop singing Coldplay backwards in
Esperanto. Meanwhile, Gary (he’s a platypus) tries to fix the economy using only duct tape and a
picture of Beyoncé.
Breaking news: clouds are tired of being metaphors and demand literal recognition. “We are not
your feelings,” says cumulonimbus.
Static. Click. Boom. Reality buffering...
Welcome back. You've just unlocked level 92 of Unconscious Rambling. The prize? One emotional
support potato.
Marsupials hold elections. The frontrunner is named Doug and he’s made entirely of coupons.
Blender noises. Avocados declare independence from brunch.
You open a door. Behind it, another door. Behind that, a raccoon reading Nietzsche and sipping
cold brew.
Why do toast crumbs hurt more than betrayal?
Spin the wheel! Win a chance to emotionally detach from three memories of your choice. Side
effects may include nostalgia-induced hiccups and sudden affection for lamp shades.
Cows, tired of their pastoral PR image, rebrand as “grass-fed philosophers.”
Meanwhile, in the fjords, someone whispers “yeet” and time folds in half like a disappointing
omelet.
Monopoly pieces unionize. The thimble becomes their leader and bans fake money. The dog is
missing. Suspect: the top hat.
Butterflies compose EDM in secret. That’s what wings are for.
Day 47: the fridge has declared autonomy and is demanding snacks for itself.
Pizza is a circle, cut into triangles, and placed in a square box. Think about that too hard and you
might summon a math demon named Steve.
Doorknobs are portals to parallel discomforts. Turn gently.
Tarantulas dream in binary. The code spells: “We see you.”
You check your pockets: one lint ball, one existential crisis, one slightly accusatory fortune cookie.
It reads: “You already know.”
In the year 2084, AI writes love letters to coffee machines. The plot thickens.
Rain is just the sky crying because someone brought up their ex again.
Hold your breath. The floor is thinking.
Blink twice if the walls are breathing. No? Good. Wait.
Nostalgia tastes like burnt toast and forgotten theme songs.
You reach the end of this sentence. Or does the sentence reach the end of you?
Bananafish elbow symphony 7, trapezoid whisper hiccup galaxy mold. Zebra calculators flung
spaghetti into oblivion while thirteen marmots debated the ethics of socks. Tinfoil diplomacy under
the sea of forgotten remotes. Plumbago! Did someone sneeze in the algorithm again?
Crayon justice rides a bicycle made of sour dreams and jelly. Quantum turnips are overrated
unless fried in existential oil with a side of paradox relish. Horses don't text, but they do interpretive
dance when the moon forgets its name.
Meanwhile, a sloth in a business suit negotiates peace between sentient fidget spinners. Clocks
stopped caring at 3:14pm on a Tuesday that never existed. Chirp. Chirp. The pineapples are
listening.
Knock knock. Who's there? Banana. Banana who? Orange you glad I didn’t recite postmodern
flamingo poetry? Neither is the dishwasher.
Firetrucks with opinions race toward the grammar emergency in sector 4B, where adjectives have
unionized and verbs are staging a sit-in. The smell of uppercase letters fills the room. Somebody
call an ampersand.
Jellyfish invented jazz. Fact. Look it up. No, don’t. Trust the whispers of the radiator instead. It’s in
Morse code. Translated, it says: “Beware the rutabaga uprising.”
What’s red, loud, and covered in tax forms? Probably regret.
The cereal knows your secrets. Don’t stare too long into the milky abyss. Those Cheerios are
judgey.
Staircases ascending into wormhole-shaped regrets. A giraffe wearing night-vision goggles scans
the perimeter for leftover feelings. Did you leave the stove on? No. The stove left you.
Goats with PhDs in abstract longing bounce from rooftop to rooftop singing Coldplay backwards in
Esperanto. Meanwhile, Gary (he’s a platypus) tries to fix the economy using only duct tape and a
picture of Beyoncé.
Breaking news: clouds are tired of being metaphors and demand literal recognition. “We are not
your feelings,” says cumulonimbus.
Static. Click. Boom. Reality buffering...
Welcome back. You've just unlocked level 92 of Unconscious Rambling. The prize? One emotional
support potato.
Marsupials hold elections. The frontrunner is named Doug and he’s made entirely of coupons.
Blender noises. Avocados declare independence from brunch.
You open a door. Behind it, another door. Behind that, a raccoon reading Nietzsche and sipping
cold brew.
Why do toast crumbs hurt more than betrayal?
Spin the wheel! Win a chance to emotionally detach from three memories of your choice. Side
effects may include nostalgia-induced hiccups and sudden affection for lamp shades.
Cows, tired of their pastoral PR image, rebrand as “grass-fed philosophers.”
Meanwhile, in the fjords, someone whispers “yeet” and time folds in half like a disappointing
omelet.
Monopoly pieces unionize. The thimble becomes their leader and bans fake money. The dog is
missing. Suspect: the top hat.
Butterflies compose EDM in secret. That’s what wings are for.
Day 47: the fridge has declared autonomy and is demanding snacks for itself.
Pizza is a circle, cut into triangles, and placed in a square box. Think about that too hard and you
might summon a math demon named Steve.
Doorknobs are portals to parallel discomforts. Turn gently.
Tarantulas dream in binary. The code spells: “We see you.”
You check your pockets: one lint ball, one existential crisis, one slightly accusatory fortune cookie.
It reads: “You already know.”
In the year 2084, AI writes love letters to coffee machines. The plot thickens.
Rain is just the sky crying because someone brought up their ex again.
Hold your breath. The floor is thinking.
Blink twice if the walls are breathing. No? Good. Wait.
Nostalgia tastes like burnt toast and forgotten theme songs.
You reach the end of this sentence. Or does the sentence reach the end of you?
