Once upon a time in a land not too far, historians gathered to capture echoes—mostly of voices saying, "Aren't you in charge of this meeting?" But the real treasure was the echoes that craved pizza and bad puns, resonating through the halls of history.
Mirth mingles with myths as we stand before the reflective surfaces of yesteryears. In one mirror, evening dresses floating amid rascal-tales dance. In another, Napoleon’s hat nods convincingly at your questionable decisions.
Histories aren’t static, rather they moonwalk into modernity, slipping on hypothetical banana peels of wisdom. What we see wilfully neglects context—childlike wonder at grownup things!
"Echoes can’t go far," muse the historians, perching on holographic unicorns. Or were they figures of shadow cast by someone with an affinity for spears and dislike for direct paths?