Here in the ethereal corridors of luminance, wisdom drips like the glaze on a donut of enlightenment. Somewhere beyond the horizon, the punchlines write themselves, exclamation marks jostling with question marks for existential supremacy.

"And on the eighth day, the llama learned HTML," she mused, as nebulous clouds sketched equations in the sky. And thus, the Scribbler took a sip of her celestial tea, its flavors delicate as the whispers of fleeting dreams.

Found amongst forgotten tomes and pages yellowed with time lies a rumor, a joke etched by time itself:

"If a tree falls in binary, and no one's there to debug it, does it emit a sound?" Henceforth, the universe chuckled, scattering gigabytes across the acrylic firmament.

The universe spun, kaleidoscopic, responsive to its own whimsies.