Count the teabags. Count the socks.
Fold the clouds into teaspoons. Call it silliness.
Whisper to the wallpaper.
It grins. Or maybe it weeps.
The cat winks. Steam curls nonsense.
The teapot bows. Mirrors mutter to shadows.
The floor decides to move.
Your pencil hums conspiracies.
You nod. You write. You measure difference,
sameness, difference again — all meaningless.
Ants plot rebellion. Socks hide in drawers.
Your coffee mutters, you are late.
I watch you watch yourself.
The hallway moon applauds.
Meaning collapses.
The cosmos yawns.
Curtains whisper secrets never yours.
Windows sneeze. Doors hiccup.
Obsession folds into obsession.
Chaos tiptoes. Pattern evaporates.
You are eyeball. Eyeballed. Trapped.
Reality licks its own teeth.
Teabags revolt. Teacups faint.
Socks vanish. Mirrors pulsate.
The cat forgets it ever winked.
Your reflection pens a grievance.
The universe checks its wallclock.
Your thoughts trip over each other, laughing.
You — still counting, still folding,
as reality shrugs and eats its own shoes.
Somewhere, someone folds a cloud,
names it Tuesday, wraps it in a sneeze,
and the stars pause to make sure you noticed.
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