surreal tide

A wild flower flickered in the Monkey King's palm—small as proof, loud as a crown He taught it tricks of wind and riddle-speech, to cart the dusk and tumble kingdoms down Its petals rewrote maps: veins as poems, each fold a compass that makes old borders frown So from that stubborn bloom a new legend grew, stitching history to song and earning its own renown

It snipped the red seam of the city—streets unstitched into ribbons that chased their owners' shoes A compass sprouted ears and winked; it pointed where regrets hid and led them into tickled alleys Officials found their laws folded into paper boats, floating upriver toward rumor and laughter The Monkey King clapped; the flower somersaulted through cartographers' pockets, turning order into game

After the game, the city inhaled carefully; laughter folded into a single small sigh. The flower furled a petal like a hand over a name, petals whispering old calendars shut. The Monkey King let his applause hang heavy then slip away, placing the bloom on cracked stone in reverence. People moved like soft liturgies past, leaving paper boats of yesterday that the river accepted without sound.

Streetlamps bowed and learned to whisper, laying a velvet hush along cracked cobbles. A petal drifted into a child's palm; the child cupped it like a secret and practiced quieting the ache. The Monkey King let his grin shrink to a moth's wing, keeping his hands empty so sorrow could be held. Paper boats returned at dusk, muffled benedictions afloat, carrying names made small enough to be borne.

A petal answered the child's hush with a jaunty hiccup, returning the small grief as a joke. Streetlamps threw back arched replies—light stutters that scolded and then winked, learning to tease. The Monkey King's clap unfolded into a chorus of mimic hands; invisible palms made paper applause. Even the river rehearsed the sounds, spitting names into ripples that skipped like marbles toward the moon

The Monkey King's fingers slowed into a metronome of breath; the flower sighed and threaded a low, warm tune. Streetlamps dimmed like eyelids, their bulbs folding into a soft rhythm that rocked cobbles and curtains to sleep. Paper boats stilled their chatter and drifted like cradled syllables, the river humming each name into a silver pause. The child pressed a petal to their chest; under that swg

The petal pressed to the child's chest thrummed like a low loom, weaving a slow swing beneath the city's ribs. Alleys inhaled that rhythm; shutters leaned out to listen as if their panes were hollow shells. Paper boats ceased gossip and bobbed in time, each name softened into the steady rocking of a cradle-song. The Monkey King's hands, empty as promises, moved as if to pat the air and steady an i

The petal melted into a small moon and tugged the river's shoulders, so streets softened into gulls of light. Paper names unknotted like driftwood and rose, spelling gentle longings along the inward sky. The Monkey King let his empty hands close into a smile; the bloom folded itself into maps that hummed beneath people's ribs. Dawn found the city rinsed and rearranged, every footstep setting down,