Cosmic Threads

"You ever wondered," he began, his eyes flickering like distant quasars, "what it would feel like to walk on the spindly threads of the universe?" A pause hung in the air, heavier than a black hole, before he continued, "Not the solid ground of Earth, mind you, but those wispy strands connecting all the stars..."

I nodded, though honestly, I didn't have a clue. But when he talked, it was like standing on the precipice of infinite possibilities. "Imagine knitting with stardust," he chuckled, "or wearing a scarf woven from moonlight. It'd give a chilly night some serious class, wouldn't it?"

His hands gestured wildly, drawing constellations in the air, creating a cosmic tapestry right in front of my eyes. "I mean, who needs terrestrial sheep when you've got nebulae to spin your yarn?"

The pub was quiet except for our corner, where sanity stepped aside to let lunatic poetry run free. "And what of the spiders?" he pondered aloud, "Those celestial arachnids, weaving dimensional webs in the night sky? Do they have a cosmic loom, or is it all by hand with a touch of astral magic?"

"You think they ever run out of thread?" I asked, sipping my drink. He smiled knowingly, "Here's the kicker... they don’t. Because the universe itself is an endless spool of possibility, my friend."