Once upon a cosmic ink drop, the universe yawned and stars pirouetted in their forgotten cradle.
A comet passed by, and with it, the nostalgia of interstellar grocery lists.
"Stardust, two packets; dark matter, a sprinkle," the celestial echo whispered.
The lullaby was stitched with irony, sung by quasars whose voices rusted like old typewriters.
"Find me at the shopping aisle of Andromeda," one black hole chuckled, devouring metaphors whole.
Here lies the irony: galaxies drift like ships in a cosmic sea without ports or dawns.
Lullabies in prose tied them to dreams only to untangle them at noon.
The universe, a grand tapestry, woven with threads of absurdity and timeless humor.
Beyond the clustered stars, the universe hosts a carnival.
Nebulas are clowns with hats of helium, juggling lightning bolts.
"Step right up!" they chant, "witness the eternal nap of a sleeping giant!"
The moon, an old man in a rocking chair, hums to the rhythm of time's ticking clock.
His songs, haunting lullabies, echo through the silence, making stars giggle.
Irony: the void enjoys its solitude, yet dances to the tunes of comets' mirth.
A cosmic laughter, echoing through the dark—an applause for a silent play.
"Encore!" the blackness whispers, a request for more silent tales.