In the beginning, there was a sound—a soft whisper, an unsung tune lurking in the folds of the cosmos. Philosophers called it Essence; comedians, a punchline waiting to happen.
"You see," mused the philosopher, his spectacles perched precariously, "the melody is but a reflection of our innermost thoughts—a cacophony of existential dread harmonizing with the absurdity of a chicken crossing the road."
"Well, what did the chicken expect?" replied the impromptu comedian, slipping on an imaginary banana peel, a farcical triumvirate of fate, gravity, and timing. "A free-range philosophy degree?"
The audience chuckled, not out of understanding but shared bewilderment. In this opera of the absurd, the truth was in the rhythm, the comedy in the cosmic dance.