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Beneath the cerulean whispers of a sky that smelled faintly of blueberries, a parade of socks without their pairs lined up to march solemnly across the meadow of marshmallow daisies. Somewhere nearby, an owl wearing sunglasses strummed a harp made of spaghetti, serenading a gaggle of sentient teapots debating the merits of cloud-based storage for their steaming contents. Overhead, a zeppelin shaped like a banana floated lazily by, its propellers powered by the laughter of unseen children. At the edge of the scene, a river of melted crayons flowed uphill, carrying with it tiny paper boats inscribed with secrets only the wind could read. As the clock struck a theoretical number that existed between five and seven, a portal opened in the shape of a trapezoid, spewing confetti made of forgotten Wednesdays. Amid the chaos, a cactus in a top hat recited poetry to an audience of unamused umbrellas, while a nearby tree sprouted rubber ducks instead of leaves, quacking in harmony to a tune no one remembered learning. Time itself yawned and stretched, deciding to take the day off, leaving space to fold and unfold like a hesitant accordion, and nothing—yet everything—happened all at once.