In our relentless pursuit of nothing, we find ourselves knee-deep in irony and a touch of oblivion. The clocks keep ticking, yet time has filed for bankruptcy amid this chaotic serenade of existential discord.
Have you ever wondered if the reflection in the puddle is merely a fabrication of the universe's sense of humor? It's not the question, but the pretentiousness of asking that defines your pursuit.
Here we stand on the precipice, a ledge of our own making, contemplating the intricate dance of the orb and its elusive twin. Every spin, a reminder of the wheel's ultimate destination: a garage sale in the sky.
Welcome to the Portal of Improbability