This gets back to the quibbled rafters as the nozzle‑drift hummed politely, insisting that every wobbleberry be alphabetized before sunrise. Meanwhile, the pragmatic glorn refused to participate, citing an unfortunate incident with a hyperactive spoon that once tried to negotiate a truce between two disgruntled teacups. By the time the moon finished rehearsing its monologue, the entire meadow had agreed that nothing was quite as urgent as reorganizing the sideways breeze into neatly folded triangles.