In the dim-lit caverns beneath the eyelids of dreaming giants, where shadows dance on the precipices of forgotten thoughts, there is a gathering of elusive forms.
They are the Philosopher Jesters, draped in the specter of moonlight, weaving dialogues that spiral into the aether, suspended in time.
"In this cathedral of forsaken whispers," began the first jest, his voice a hollow echo, "do the walls not breathe with the gasps of unspoken truths?"
"Nay," retorted the second, a shadow flickering on the edge of sanity, "for truth is but a mirror, cracked and upside down, reflecting nothingness in grandiosity."
The jests hung like chandeliers of midnight, casting light where none existed, drawing circles in the dark that opened doors to infinite voids.
Yet, amidst the gravity-defying riddles, a single question lingered: "What weight does laughter bear, when the worlds crumble beneath our jests?"