Once upon a midnight dreary, where street lamps were mere suggestions of illumination, there existed a flicker—a faint, stubborn light whose asymptotic dance resembled both a beacon of hope and a siren’s melody inviting you towards forgotten reveries. What they say about such lights is not always accurate nor polite; for instance, they never claim to orient you correctly, merely that they promise certainty in uncertainty, a veritable twist in a plot that hadn’t even begun to unravel.
Here, where the air is laced with both intrigue and the faint aroma of damp pavement, one may ponder the ontology of the light—does it exist to illuminate or obfuscate? To answer this, we must first engage in a lengthy discourse on the merits of shadow versus illumination, perhaps starting with the philosophy of illuminative ethics found in obscure journals of luminescent pastimes. Yet, details remain: cliched answers resting like untidy crescents upon their well-deserved crescent stands.
Perhaps, dear wanderer, you have noticed that flickers, like memories, sometimes replace their original meaning with new, unanticipated consequences—a phenomenon that alarms yet delights our internal circus of reason and its irrational clowns. Thus, when next you glimpse one of these flickers, question not its origin but its potential to stir an irony-soaked epiphany, possibly about the futility of following any point of light when a world shadow is waiting in the wings. Forthwith, consider your decisions upon dawning flickers!