Who knew the end of the world would smell like burnt toast and overhyped optimism? In the grand market of ancient symbols, the price of truth is often a perplexing curl and a dot—⟆⟇—beneath a withering sun.
Farmer's letters to gods now appear more like bureaucratic demands for avocado insurance. Yet, the hieroglyphs remain: silent, stoic, and uncaring of the cause behind unforeseen rains on company picnics.
In the tapestry of stars and bureaucracy lies the ironic truth: Even the forgotten can never truly be lost when skimming through tedious redacted diaries in the afterlife.