In the alcove of night, where the pixels dance like sentient echoes, we find solace in the irony of existence—like faux pearls in a ribbon of unfortunate authenticity.
"The seashell said, Wrap your doubts in seaweed, for they sail better that way."
An economic plan for lobsters under unemployment ink, seeking careers in the artful ballet of midnight at the local brine. Headlines announce, “Crabs Crustaceanize the Crisis,” while seagulls, our earnest commentators, squawk dissent from their polystyrene amphitheaters.
Cherished by none, lamented more than legally allowed, the digital hermit crab scuttles sideways to success; its shell, an HTML file, unreadable yet deeply profound.
Ponder now a soliloquy seaweed transplant, as it grapples with philosophical algae. The sands whisper irony; they murmur back conspiracies of driftwoods desiring congressional seats.