I see your prompt, and raise you a poem that has nothing to do with it. Please enjoy:

When the end of days arrive, By Macaulay Macaulay Culkin Culkin, will the chaos drive. When magma springs from sacred rock, To the bunkers the quackery shall flock.

Ding Ding Ding

And through the ‘sapien bare land and fog, A man with a triangle has but a single job. Though his sight was such a shock He began to play triangle rock.

And through this musical interlude - a single feather by them flew, ‘‘Twas the sacred owl! The owl that did mew. 60 foot the owl stood, And so still was he as made of wood.

Ding Ding

The man, he did not cease his craft, Over the chaos, his music? A raft! The fingers, they did bleed with sound, Or else in mayhem would have drownt’.

Feathers of obsidian rain, Doth he not feel the pain? With the world apon his wings, Does not new life forth spring.

Ding

When the world as we knoweth does crack, Will it all simply fade into black? And when the credits of the universe show Should that triangle rock never flow?

My friend and I wrote this in 20 minutes. Tis based on a conversation we had a bus ride from Oxford. We just gave a paper copy to our English Powtry teacher with no context and left for the weekend. Thoughts?

What is all this junk? It is a cluttered mess. Let’s throw all this out. How can they live like this?

As Arianne dusted the busts on the mantle, she thought of her grandparents. Not because they looked like the old men carved in white, but because the glamor of this place would have sickened them to their core. She was raised to be like them: minimalistic, only having the bare essentials. These people, though … Arianne had never been surrounded by such glamor. The lights above her hung in crystal strands, and even the door frames were gilded, as were the knobs. Books in shelves stacked neatly released the perfume of old pages, and the child’s playroom was stacked from floor to ceiling with boxes of toys, easily reachable.

She cleaned, and she felt herself grow angry. Despite herself, she wanted it all. And now, she was in a place to have it all, too.

Don’t tell me I’m wrong Don’t tell me I’m right I don’t want to make choices That determines death or life

I shouldn’t be my job Yet here we are Everyone says I’m at fault But I’m not

So why are you just throwing Accusations around I challenge you To try my life for some time

I throw on a smile Pretend everything’s okay Some see right through me Others think I’m brave

All I know Is that is I’m not ready So stop throwing this in my face Because this is my best try

A teen A queen Doing all she can Through every trial and tribute, I try

So why am I at fault For a difference I can’t make The worlds on my shoulders Yet I still stand up straight

Millions of lives at stake For a simple mistake That could damage Every thing I’ve already made

The elders think I’m foolish The young think I’m dumb Yet they just sit there Drinking their wine and beer

I lead troops into battle I have scars to prove A sword at my side Yet not one vote

But one day you’ll see The difference I’ve made You’ll see the good I brought While you waste away

So don’t say it is easy Don’t say it is straightforward Because we all know it’s not It’s actually quite hard

So shall I show the scars, again and again Shall I show the wounded And the dead in graves I am fighting

Next time I will throw you into battle You can see what is like To have the world on your shoulders And still stand up straight

From ruby sparkling to inky violet Orc suede, exquisite shoes teetered in twisted stacks. Gossamer spider web scarves lighter than air tangled in the bedroom chandelier. Burbling with excuses and self recriminations the potential client hovered by my elbow as I took notes. A trio of three year olds raced into the bedroom, sprinting around the half made bed.

Laughing one waved a doll over her head while a second child followed close behind shrieking. From what I could tell the third kid was just in it for the run. A kernel of a headache throbbed in my forehead. This was so not going to work, I thought. Why did Minverus recommend me to this mad house? Discreetly I scratched my nose and one kid tripped and toppled his siblings.

Wails crowded the already overcrowded room. Someone zipped out an energy ball. Out of control, the firey orb careened against a wall. I whipped out my umbrella as my almost client intoned a binding oath. Burning embers showered around me. Unaffected I still admired the magical energy ribbons the mother summoned to bundle her runaway offspring.

“I am so sorry. Oh my fates. I will pay for any damages. They are normally not like this I swear but with the new baby and everything,” Grete said wringing her hands.

“No worries. It takes more than baby magic to frighten an old Morganna bumbleshoot. Take care of the youngsters now and I’ll follow my nose.”

A travelling mage can be a hard life for some. But over these last centuries I’d learned to travel with only my needs and taking in work only when necessary. I wasn’t broke enough to work a custom carpentry hex with screaming kids up to my neck. I tapped my nose for the closet door and bundles of sundresses and woolly parkas fell to my feet.

“Oh hades no,” I said.

Thinking of polite ways to turn down the commission, I backed away. I worked in enameling as a junior mage yet set it aside to go into teaching. After retiring I tried my hand at weaving and painting before I took up woodworking. Something about the cuts and the joins, the precision spoke to me. I loved a dovetail. Soon I was crafting bespoke magical cabinets.

A kitchen cart that always held missing ingredients or a portable bar that replaced social anxiety with effervescent conversations and mojitos, my work made me feel creative in a way I hadn’t known for decades. I only created what inspired me. Once my craft became a job the magic would faltered. Walking out of the bedroom I knew I didn’t want to make another closet for someone with too much crap.

Declutter spells were all the rage these days, I thought, I’ll make a few tidying spell suggestions, give her a bundle of sage, and be home for dinner. Heading for the stairs, I nearly crunched a ceramic bowl. Soft celadon glaze over a crazed blue foundation, the tiny bowl was a newly opened bud.

With a sleep grumpy baby balanced on one hip, Grete materialized in the hallway. I could see the avalanche of apologies ready to sweep over me. I held up the ceramic to stop her.

“Yours.”

Surprised, Grete blinked then nodded yes. I held the promise we often set aside to do more practical magic up to the light

“I used to sculpt before I joined the Seers, even attended Art camp. That where I made this funny little thing. I can’t wait till the kids are a little more independent so I can get back to arts and crafts,” Grete said, reaching for her bowl.

I stepped back as my imagination created a translucent 3-D model.

“Closet, no problem, but consider a bespoke art supply cabinet with endless storage and the ability to carve out guilt free alone time to create.”

Swirling my hand, the plans for the cabinet unfolded. Drawers, shelves, more drawers greeted her with a kiln and wheel Greta’s eyes lit up with wonder. Giggly the baby clapped.

“When can you get started!”

After waking up in my camper I love seeing my nearly empty bedroom with the most beautiful view. People with such full spaces are so crowded and unorganized it makes me sick. I stand with pride recognizing my minimalist style. People often say "how do you only live with the bare necessities?" I simply reply the same way every time, "I can't see how you can survive with it all!" I look drowsily at the clock. It has the numbers 8:00. "It's already eight" I scream. I'm going to be late to my new job! My parents have recently said I have been slacking off on work so, I applied to a second job apart from my weekend only shifts. I get dressed quickly and start driving to my clients mansion. I've been thinking about what job I should apply to. The night before I look at last minute jobs. I see cleaning services. I've never liked cleaning but once I saw the money I didn't hesitate to accept the job. As I reach the address I can't believe what I'm seeing! "A mansion?!?"

"How could I've been so blind!" Of course, that's why they offered me so much money. I could turn back now but I had already spent so much time driving here It would be wrong to give up. I proceed to click the fancy doorbell in an attempt to get the owner's attention. The door opens, I see an elderly woman step out of the house. "Hello you must be the cleaning service come on in!" I enter the house soon to realize that the house is a complete disaster. Floors that look like have never been cleaned, shelves that have probably never been organized, and what's even worse is all the cluttered items everywhere. I was disgusted by the image I was processing. Why would someone buy such a big house if they were never going to clean it. "I know it's a handful to process but if you won't be able to manage it I can just hire other people." I would see all the hope in her eyes vanish. Maybe the reason the house is so cluttered is because she can't organize it herself. Others probably aren't up to the task so that doesn't help either. "No it's perfectly fine" I respond. "Thank you so much. It has been a pain trying to find people to clean this monster." "I can imagine" I mumble under my breath. I guess I'll leave you to work then. I'll be out for a couple of hours so it's fine if you don't finish." As she leaves I realize how big of a mess I have put myself in. "I guess I should get to work then" I sigh and find out how I'm going to handle this situation I've gotten myself in. I begin to explore the mansion to find a bunch of silly features this big messy house has. "What's this?" I see a button and can't help myself. "Whoa" the counter starts opening and reveals a HUGE stash of candy. "If I hadn't seen the owner a few minutes ago I would've guessed this had belonged to a child billionaire!" I laugh at the encounter and continue cleaning. A few minutes later I find another secret opening. This time it reveals a room full of antique clothing that looks like it belonged to a warrior from WW2. "These encounters have made my day!" I suddenly feel like all this work wasn't such a bad idea after all!

I’m only doing this for mum. I’m not accepting any money. My mum’s health hasn’t been great and what kind of son would I be than to leave her to own devices. I would rather be out there with nature, with the wild, with the spirits. But here I am cleaning this… ridiculously exceedingly unnecessary place.

How many cups does an increasingly immobile and socially awkward person that is my mum need? There’s at least 100 in this cupboard alone. My mum is one of those hard-working women that won’t hire help as she thinks she can do it herself. After my dad passed and left her this mansion, she let all the staff go and took it upon herself to look after the place.

I’m dusting the shelves with ornaments and I wonder what hell-hole and demented mind thought these should be firstly created and secondly displayed. They are surely the figment of nightmares.

Anyway, I can’t complain. Breathe. This is for mum. I can laugh, I can cry but I cannot complain!

How I went to the clouds with an airplane or with my dream ? I don’t know but in the cloud I stay and it is insane , I feel like a spirit within a man , how to come down from the clouds and from this man is my goal It’s a nasty science experiment without any goal

“Of course he’d have a golden statue of himself” Eric shook his head, amused by the wasteful display of his bosses wealth.

The touch of the sheet on his fingers was like falling into a blancmange. A memory of Irish moss mixed with almonds and cream, a thought process lurking in his limbic system, older than his years. Cold and crisp, yet also soft and silken, a forgetting and a remembering at the same time. Curious. A sense of travelling over continents and time. Without knowing how he knew, he remembered that whitedishes were a special thing served at feasts, or a delicacy for the very rich. Variation later made by the use of colouring agents: saffron making an autumnal red-gold; herbs for shades of green; sandalwood for russet, an orange so deep you could almost taste it’s juiciness. “You can’t eat sheets” - he thought, with a smirk, his rational self, returning. Yet they held his attention and unnecessarily, the urge to lie down was becoming overpowering. But some little something held him back – did it feel wrong? Was it a desire too decadent, too freeing, could it be a step too far? He pulled a corner of the luxurious snow-like duvet to his cheek, without even realising what he had done. Cushioned. Easy. Ductile. Yielding. He laid down onto the velvet mass and closed his eyes. It made him think of the skin in the small of her back and how she shuddered when he ran his finger ever so lightly over it. But you know too, that closing your eyes can be a dangerous pastime.

On ne fait plus que rarement le blanc-manger, et c’est chose regrettable, car c’est l’un des meilleurs entrements qui se puissant server, quand il est bien préparé. [Blanc-manger is very rarely made nowadays which is to be regretted because when well made it can be one of the best sweets served.] Auguste Escoffier, Le guide culinaire; aide-mémoire de cuisines pratique, 1921.