In the cosmic coffeehouse of the Milky Way, where the espresso is as dark as a black hole, and the pastries are shaped like asteroids—an owl once asked a photon, "What's your wavelength?"
The photon replied, "I'm on a light diet, keeping things radiant and refracted." And so the cosmic banter flowed, as galaxies giggled at the gravity-defying puns, and the comets considered a career in stand-up.
Wandering stargazers, ever the spectators of the universe's cryptic cartography, now ponder: can one find meaning in meteor showers more succinctly than one finds socks lost to the dryer vortex?