In the corridors of time, laughter often flounders awkwardly amidst the shadows. We stumble upon the relics of abandoned comedies—skits etched in the dust of yesteryears, scripts that unravel into cosmic laughter lines, and steps that echo without the feet.
Imagine, if you will, a philosopher in a chicken suit, pondering the existential dread of omelettes. "To be, or not to be fried," he muses, a poignant quack resonating through empty theatres. More than a disaster, a moment of divine slapstick, captured forever in the memory of mimes. Yet, here we ask, do echoes wear shoes?
Footsteps in forgotten alleys, where vaudeville ghosts trip over invisible banana peels, trailing laughs of irony. The past, a skeptic of its own punchlines, rolling in proverbial graves beneath starlit skies, where every twinkle is a wink at the missteps of time's own stagehands.
Wander Further The Unseen Route