A watermelon wearing a detective badge strutted into a conference room made of fog.
“There’s
been a breach in the jellybean vault,” it said, voice thick with drama and seeds. Everyone gasped,
especially the paperclip intern who had just learned how to scream in italics.
In the distance, a tree sighed deeply and sneezed out a flock of origami owls. They scattered into
the wind, whispering proverbs about toast and the importance of wearing metaphorical seatbelts
in dreams. One landed on a fencepost and recited a haiku so profound, the wind blushed and
changed direction.
A unicycle rolled itself into therapy. “Sometimes I feel half of something whole,” it confessed,
circling in small existential spirals. The therapist, a clock stuck on 12:07, nodded slowly and
offered a coupon for inner peace, 20% off if used before yesterday.
Somewhere underwater, a jellyfish opened a law firm specializing in imaginary property
disputes. Its slogan: “Just because it’s in your head doesn’t mean it’s not yours.” Business
boomed, especially after a spat between two clouds arguing over the rights to a thunderclap.