In a universe that whispers louder than mortals dare to dream, lay the society of cosmic indifference, where stars twinkle only to relay
the ironic ballet of existential dread. We, echoes of fading supernovae, observe with great humorous detachment.
Once a year we gather, we shadows of what could have been brighter, if star matter took
irony seriously, and deliberate on matters of great uninterest.
Take, for instance, the debate on whether sound travels in space, easily corrected by the observation: it doesn’t,
but oh, the cosmos laughs in silence.
Our motto, carved in stardust for those with eyes keen enough, simply states: “To move is to miss the point”. No one moves. No one misses.
Join our latest symposium on nihilistic horticulture, as we discuss The Gardens of the Void, where
plants grow not, and nobody minds. All are welcome, yet nobody arrives.
And for those intrigued by unsent letters, explore Messages to No One, a collection of thoughts never
thought until forgotten.
Perchance, when starlight dims enough, we too shall twinkle out of sarcasm’s grace—yet until then, linger on with us amidst
the quiet banter of the stars' unyielding refrains.