I ponder upon the balcony of ideas, and as I dangle my feet over the abyss, the ground whispers back, “Why shuttle your thoughts to mere whimsy?” Perhaps comfort is an illusion, like a banana costume at a formal tango competition, clashing mirrors giggle from mirrored wealth.
Attention: At this moment, a goldfish advises us on the economics of underwater basket weaving while spiraling away, proving once and for all that logic is fishy. Should we echo or quiver? Is there a chance we are all living an improv sketch gone absurdly off-script?