The cosmic vending machine has run dry. Fresh tokens forsaken.
At half past oblivion, the tea never seemed so lukewarm.
Echoes from the future garage sale resound in silence.
Reluctant time travelers don’t need maps but prefer vague pamphlets.
Cursory glances at infinity suggest the myth of store hours.
In the philosophical warehouse, self-assembly is mandatory.
Bureau of Regrettable Decisions openly sponsors spontaneous enlightenment retreats.
Proceed with caution: the kaleidoscope of pastiche leads forth but offers no compass. Yet still, you navigate with earnest irony through shadows of once-illuminated corridors. Listen closely.