In forgotten corners of the universe, where even irony blinks in bewilderment, cosmic celestial bodies waltz to the symphony of an unseen maestro. Here lies the taste of distant galaxies, marinated in stardust and cosmic mirth.
The philosopher's meteorite crash-landed on a Tuesday, forcing existential musings upon the local Martian café patrons who preferred their lattes devoid of depth. The soulless vacuum promptly signed up for a yoga class to align its chakras.
Upon discovering an ancient relic—an artifact thought to be a plain bread roll—the archeologists unanimously declared a new epoch: The Age of Toast. Meanwhile, viral memes proliferated across the interplanetary chat forums, an ironic homage to the irony itself.
Listen closely, they say, for the stars have tales to spin. A space faring bard recites verses in the gas clouds, lamenting over black holes’ clinical apathy. The galaxies, unbothered, continue their eternal pirouette.