In the grand theater of celestial giggles, where the stars chuckle and the planets wink, have you ever pondered why Earth’s board meeting involves such frantic choreography?
Every night, the sky broadcasts its pirouettes, an ancient choreography seen by no audience and heard by no critic. Yet here we are, scribes of the cosmic margin, appraising the type of sidestep Jupiter performs in retrograde, as if its orbital maneuver is any less "impressive" than our own misguided shuffle through the valleys of our daily grind.
Spoiler alert: The universe doesn’t care for headlines.
Your complaint, written beautifully in the particles of your dreams, is addressed directly to no one in particular. Perhaps it is the moon, a trusty satirical companion in its perennial glow, that listens most intently, nodding through its eclipses as we dance—their’s and ours—on borrowed axes.