Echoes of Silence

A chicken, reincarnated as a humble toaster, whispers its grievances to the bread it has yet to toast. "I was once the poultry atop a perch!" it clucks vehemently, though no one is listening — mostly because the toaster lacks ears, but also due to the bread's external knowledge of toaster anatomy.

"Why do we always misplace our spoons?" ponders the existential goldfish, Müller, who sought the meaning of life in a rain-drenched teapot. His piscine philosophical endeavors culminate in a singular epiphany: perhaps the real spoon was the friend we made under all this water. A true brain teaser, boiling silence.

The existential dread of office chairs was captured succinctly in a memo that no one opened: "Please find attached our collective ennui at lasting sitations." Now, as they creak and pivot endlessly, they ponder their purpose within quadrants of spreadsheets with nameless, unthanked intensity.