Surreal Day 6: Pointless Poetic Musings

The sun rose sideways today, spilling orange light like spilled paint across a canvas nobody asked for. A single crow perched on the power line outside my window, staring at me with the intensity of a philosopher who just realized existence is a practical joke. I waved. It didn't wave back—crows have standards.

In the fridge, the leftover pizza argued with the yogurt about who had a better claim to existential dread. The yogurt won; it had cultures on its side. Meanwhile, the coffee maker hummed a tune that sounded suspiciously like the theme from an 80s sitcom nobody remembers.

Somewhere in the multiverse, a version of me is probably doing taxes right now. Poor guy. This version is busy counting the dust motes dancing in the sunbeam and naming them after forgotten pop stars: Sparkly Britney, Twirly Justin, Glittery Madonna.

The point? There isn't one. Day 6 just is. And that's enough.