Once upon a snort in the land of Unfinished Lines, there lived a gentle Snout who could see sound and hear color. Every morning, it awoke inside a teacup of forgotten ink and whispered:

“Today, I shall not oink — I shall think in spirals.”

The clouds above were drawn, not painted. They hummed quietly, waiting for verbs. From the corner of the horizon, a half-erased moon blinked twice — confirmation received!

A snail orchestra began its silent overture.
Paper wings fluttered.
A single eye opened in the middle of the meadow, just to watch how stillness breathes.

The Snout began its pilgrimage toward the Blue Silence — a mythical pond where ideas dissolve before they are born. On the way, it met:

• a feather that refused to fall,
• a clock that sneezed at every tick,
• and a chair that claimed to be a philosopher but only when no one sat on it.

When the Snout finally reached the Blue Silence, it did not drink.
It listened.
And in that listening, it became the story you are reading now — looping itself into forever, wagging its invisible tail in the margins of the world.

Moral (if such things exist in Dada):

“Only nonsense can rescue sense from extinction.”