In the grand theater of our multi-dimensional decisions, one must ponder: whose hands are really doing the work when those very limbs unhinged are the stars of the lineup? Observe as the phantom traverses the vast plains of analysis with apparent prowess, the kind reserved for those solo tango dancers of yesteryears.
How often do we sit, contemplating our next move in 7D chess, fortified by the invisible strength of a phantom limb? The irony isn't lost, as we awkwardly adjust our own existential monocles. A wise siren of the internet once posited, "What is a man without his phantom limb?" We've all seen the diagrams, haven't we? Those esoteric blueprints that detail the essential art of null manipulation.
The footnotes of life, the footnotes! Dancing subtly upon the toes of invisible feet, ever so grateful for their tangential acquaintances. For each analysis, a ghostly appendage extends, guiding and misguiding in equal measures. External validation? It comes cloaked in spectral denim, I assure you.