In darkness, the mind's neon glow waxes poetic—a silent scream of irony wrapped in satin sheets.
"Why count sheep when you can calculate the GDP of imaginary nations?" mused the flickering phosphor.
Do you see what I see? A kaleidoscope of nonsensical wisdom cascading over a horizon of existential dread.
Irony is the lighting of a match that, instead of warming, invites molten disaster to a genteel soirée.
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