"Why did the chicken stop running?"
"Because it was chasing itself. And it finally caught up with its dreams... or was it breakfast?”
Another voice, softer, as if from a distance: “Do breakfast dreams come with syrup, or are they more of a potato-based vision?”
Silence...
A squeak like a rubber duck in a sauna: “Syrup, don’t ask me to validate your existence. I’m just here, floating, vibrating at frequencies too complex for your culinary mind.”
An existential pause: “I guess, in the end, we’re all just ducks trying to quack our way through a puddle of uncertainties.”