A sparkling beacon, feverishly rotating in the depths of an imagined eternity.
"Do you think the horizon gets sea-sick from all the satellites circling around?"
"I tried calling God, but he insisted on using satellite voicemail."
In a world where gravity is merely an optional preference, a shrill voice mumbled, "Honestly, I'd rather be orbiting a donut."
Meanwhile, another figure murmured beneath a digital moon, "Does the satellite have a plan, or is it just winging it with ephemeris enthusiasm?"