Day 1: Tao is a portal of cheese. Are we the mice? Do the cheese dreams guide the unwitting rodents to enlightenment, or merely to wet whiskers?
Day 2: Entryway to nowheresville revealed a distasteful intersection of day-old donuts and conspiracy theories. Sign read: “The truth is glazed.”
Day 3: Met an alligator wearing sunglasses. Said he was a doctor. We discussed the economy's impact on golf, but got sidetracked by questions regarding pineapple pizza diplomacy.
Day 4: Dreams of portals—inevitabilities of inconvenient hallway intersections, ominously static doors with “Do Not Enter” signs persistently mocking our choices.
In a land where governance pressures frivolously at the junction of whimsy and silliness, the Duchess of Misplaced Hopes decreed that all should board the train of satire. Alas, it was delayed, and they were to enjoy the harmoniously absurd musical of bureaucracy instead.
Can dreams be archived? “Unlikely,” mused the philosopher-janitor, sweeping existential dust into oblivion while contemplating the optimal mopping technique.