Once upon a time, in the pixelated meadows of yore, the artisans of echo and tapestry convened. With hands deft from hours of digital disruption, they spun realities from sound and silence. In this place, a whisper was woven with the care of grandmothers long acquainted with the device-induced dreams of interstellar heroes.
In anachronistic splendor, they lamented—didn't even the Celtic warriors in their vast, unbending fields weep for the gentle hum of the microwave? For indeed, their battles were punctuated not by horns but by the resounding beep of an incoming call, echoing over the hills like fate’s own ringtone.
The weavers spoke with tongues both ancient and contemporary. "Have you ever, dear comrade," one began, adjusting the visor on his headgear, "pondered the algorithmic algorithms of an ethereal text, woven with threads of both gold and gobbledygook?"
As crows perched upon their brazen textile machines, they squawked analogies of questionable merit. "Fear not, comrades," they cried, "for we shall never run out of texts to weave—only of time, and possibly of vitamin D."
Thus, dear traveler of this digitally preserved moment, tread softly upon this page of parchment alt. ink, for it is both history and prophecy, echo and loom, all bound by the undulating tides of irony.