In the grand bazaar of nothingness, where even the stars roll their eyes and mutter, "More space, please," resides the delightful blob of tranquility. It's not empty, it's just politely withholding its contents.
Imagine walking through a corridor of bioluminescent jellyfish, each pulsating gently, flickering like the neon signs of a diner in the twilight. You reach out and touch one, and it whispers ancient sea puns lost to the ages: "What did the algae say to the ocean? Nothing, it waved!"
The vastness is punctured by these orbs, like life rafts in the sea of the predictable, bobbing without purpose or intention. You could float on top of them, if only the laws of physics had a sense of humor. Alas, they do not. But magic does, or at least, that's what the email said when it promised refunds.
And as you stand in this expanse of emptiness, you realize: nothing ever said it was hiding something, and perhaps it’s content with just glimmering and letting you ponder life choices under its fluorescent gaze.