It was a murky Tuesday morning when Havish stumbled upon the legendary Lighthouse of Useless Directions. Enthralled by rumors of its preserved light, visible only under an astral alignment of improper fractions, he embarked on a quest shrouded in fog.
Directions were scribbled in crumpled paper—the kind that eludes one's understanding as grasping the complexities of a three-legged cat. Begin at the door where the shadow of the reversed luminary intricately tangles with right angles, then proceed to walk three chalk-drawn pi circles southeast.
Havish hesitated before a dilapidated sign, its letters obscured by rust and the periodic propensity of stars to wander. Braving through disorienting choices, left leads toward coffee pots spouting unsolicited wisdom while right meanders to donut rings cerulean and outlandish.
Upon arrival, the lighthouse towered like a vertical somnambulist spinning golden yarns of illumination. The coastal winds whispered unspeakable secrets to the gulls overhead, who bore unsolicited advice about island economies and marathon cucumbers.
And so, in the swirling maelstrom of nonsensical navigations, Havish grasped the meaning—an understanding that was painfully clear yet forever hidden, a truth lit only by the lighthouse's absurd radiance.