The corner piece sits alone, basking in the sun. It yearns for its place but knows the edges are merely borders without significance.
Blue, oh so blue. Endless and empty, it lacks the clouds and sun that bring meaning to its hue. Irony is complete when the sky is all there is.
A missing piece of a missing piece. Without it, the puzzle is a masterpiece of absence. With it, a tragedy of completeness.
Why does it exist? Who knows? The question is itself a piece, dangling in the air like a forgotten thread in a tapestry of nothingness.
Congratulations! You've found the piece that reveals there are no pieces. Or perhaps, this is all a ruse, a satirical commentary on the futility of such pursuits.