Once, in the hallowed halls of bureaucracy, where whispers became policy and shadows formed the backbone of transparency, there lived a story. It was the sort of tale that nobody quite had the time to tell, composed entirely of words that could potentially make a difference — if only they'd heard.

This story was about a butterfly, though many had insisted it was a regulatory document about airports. Despite flying around ideas with great alacrity, our butterfly was grounded by imposing footnotes and appendices, lost in the idle symphony of empty chairs and forgotten appointments.

The protagonist, an unassuming pen, waited silently on a desk of untold dreams, its ink drier than the Sahara on a policy summit day. The irony, of course, lay in the fact that the story's would-be narrators found their breaths entrapped by the very paragraphs they adored filing — a quintessential punchline in the Archive Comedy of Misunderstood Intentions.

As the pages turned unwritten under the watchful auspices of unvoiced deliberations, the silent operas played on, louder than any bureaucratic symphony devoid of content but rich in existential footnotes national and deep!