There is nothing more boring than a world where the hands of a clock tick away time correctly. Time, by its nature, ought to be more whimsical.

Tomorrow morning might arrive yesterday afternoon, or a day that was supposed to have ended might repeat itself over and over.

In broken things, there is a beauty that can only be seen because they are broken.

In a place that exists on no map, in no memory, and in no one's dream, there was a tea party.

Tables and chairs floated in the air, candelabras flickered with flames despite having no owner, and plain white cups filled themselves with tea without being touched by anyone.

A place where the world had given up on being the world.

There, he was drinking tea alone.