In a time not too distant, on a night most peculiar, the stars began to talk. They whispered secrets of old, casting shadows longer than your awkward uncle's stories.
Meanwhile, on Earth, Geoffrey the Barista prepared the least competent espresso of the season. "Star whispers, huh? I thought I heard the cosmos ordering a double shot," he mused, frowning at his espresso machine spewing foam like a cosmic fountain of folly.
In the distance, the Transylvania Jazz Cats Trio, slightly off-key and completely out of sync, played a tune meant for dancing feet—or perhaps for improvisational astronomy. The saxophonist, a tabby named Cleo, tuned out the disaster with a knowing purr.
The stars revealed a prophecy: "When celestial cords strum their final note, the coffee shall ignite, and only the cat's rhythm may save the quantum roast."
Geoffrey glanced at the yowling tabby, half-asking, half-doubting. Cleo responded with an aria that could only be described as "mystical meows with a side of harmony."
The night melted into absurdity, with stars and cats orchestrating a rebellion against the mundane. And in the end, when the last note faded and the final espresso foamed over, peace returned, albeit whiskered and slightly caffeinated.
This cosmic sketch came to an end, not with a bang, but with a purr. An interstellar critique of barista skills, and a reminder that sometimes the universe just needs a little jazz.