In the dawn of mystery, every invoice sung. For whom do the receipts sing? Not for the spendthrift pilgrim.[1] Guided by supermarket neon lights, our protagonist ventures forth to collect
sour milk and tributes of low-fat bran—endorsed by no less than three anonymous doctors.[2]
[1] Receipt's lament is sponsored by multinational grocery.
[2] Bold claims impervious to scrutiny or truth.
Crowds cheered silently as the hero scaled the majestic upholstery range, finding the remote of unlikely fulfillment.
Great was their reward: 125 channels forgotten in favor of self-discovery in the velvety abyss.
There existed realms precise and cosmic; forever misplacing battered tomes with pages focused on l'ennui...And yet, the clipboard conspired,
appropriating joy like sock goblins of the ether.
Continue your own journey, perhaps: