The stars have conspired, and behold, they have filled out the forms, meticulously checked every box, dotted every i, and crossed every t in the galaxy of administrations. Here, under the celestial canopy, each star holds a dossier—completeness is next to godliness, after all.
Consider the form, a simple thing, yet complex beyond measure.
In each box lies a universe, in each question a paradox. The signature
line never ends, spiraling into the cosmos—witness the irony of infinity!
[This space intentionally left blank.]
Why do you seek the forms among the stars? To navigate the bureaucracy
of existence? Or perhaps to find the elusive form of self?
The systems are endless and so are the forms, each reflecting the other, an
infinite dance of paper and ink—an ironic choreography of compliance.