Imagine the moment you choose to wash your hair. Oh, the cascading droplets are a blur, like failed attempts to unravel the tapestry of your own existence. But... as the shampoo drips down, do we not feel also the weight of a thousand separate choices, each dropping like forgotten soap bubbles?
The kitchen timer beeps, each beep echoing like a plea from a long-distant cousin named Mortimer, stranded somewhere in a parallel universe, reminding you not to burn the toast. Mortimer might also ask how cooking got this complicated. Too many flavors to juggle, it seems.
Some days, flipping a pancake feels like attempting to meditate auf einer langen Reise zur Selbstfindung, where the journey is sticky and the outcome unpredictable.