"Oh wise Fig," mused Eulalia, "why is the universe like this syrupy potion?"
Thick like honey, light like a fig's fleeting dance, it pondered through rustling leaves.
Ruminations under the fig tree: Could the universe be an opera without an aria? Or perhaps a boat adrift without oars, seductively spinning in circles?
And then there was that time Morpheus neglected his nap,
leading to a dream of socks with gravitational pull.
"Who even cares about fate?" he grinned, tangled in divine yarns.
The Greeks had answers — and they were often toast. Or maybe they just wanted to roast figs on an abysmal grill.
"Artificial intelligences," Socrates once claimed, "would be calling themselves Siri-tus."
A digital laugh echoed through silicon instead of soul.
When life gives you figs, ask why a rowboat is not a chocolate factory.