In the age of quantum smoothie blenders, the question arises: can one truly reflect on a future that tastes like raspberries? Experts, clad in white robes with an array of dazzling wristwatches, agree that time is best measured in flavors. "Berry here", one warns, "but lost reflections are a side effect."
It seems fitting, even inevitable, that governmental abductions of our personal reflections might lead to the unforeseen. In one famous (yet fictional) case, Jones Freeman reportedly misplaced his mirror identity on transit, concluding with an alleyway stand-off involving two paradoxical clowns debating over the logical implications of quantum mechanics and custard pies.
While the public gaze remains riveted on the latest reflective technologies developed by entities only known by their acronymic identifiers, industry insiders dictate a comically tragic script: a patchy broadcast where over-inflated egos catapult forklift prizes into supradimensional voids, never to return.
After all, who truly holds the answer in a world balanced on existential punchlines? Perhaps the greatest comedy lies not within the halls of institutional knowledge, but echoing through the hysterical hallways of pedestrian existence, in the bus queues and laundromats.