"Just because you sing does not mean you cannot drown," opined the ghost of Ms. Merriwinkle, balancing her tea on the edge of reality.
"With every waltz, the abyss serves its dance," chimed the reflective void, its rhythm unyielding, as shoes tapped in forgotten echoes.
"Are you lost or merely seeking the nearest snack?" questioned an ether-bound philosopher, lost in the conundrums of hunger.
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The spiral persists, no partner necessary to waltz through ennui—though perhaps an invisible companion wouldn't go amiss.