Once upon an interstellar pause, where time etches on the cosmic chalkboard, a giraffe scholar named Gilda pondered quantum physics over a cup of minty space tea. The nebula cafes always served the strangest stirries, orange and electric blue. Her thought drifted like a wayward comet — a snicker of Revolution had it, in the moral high ground.
Meanwhile, in the next galaxy over, a pizza delivery tyrannosaurus was trying to use touch ID for his phone. The fluctuating temperature of his ancient dermis disrupted the system like a sad hypnotist on a bad day. Wobbling, he waited for the quantum turn of fate, or at least for a cheese escape plan.
A moose in a monocle bought the pathway, and chaos ensued — apples complained about their existential fit whilst watermelons unceremoniously rolled downhill, grumbling in their fruity tongues about proximal apple prejudice.
And somewhere, an anchor swung — not in the sea, but in the firmament, dangling recklessly over the ether of deliberations. Would it drop? Should one ever question the anchors of the skies?
For more tales of celestial shenanigans:
Fables of the Farthest East
Moose and the Matinee
The Tyrannosaurus' Turning Point