Picture, if you will, a swath of lunar tortillas banished to the carnival-like surface that speaks in whispers the ancient tongue, composed, they say, of reflective sands such as might contemplate the meaning of meaning without achieving much more than existential sand rash. Companions to the ebbing moon, these sands lie in wait for the universe's farcical contemplative dance, whereupon a single meteor might crash, their solace disrupted momentarily as they wonder if it was all worth the burn-out.
And there you might find thechiaggable laughing ocelots, whom textbooks forsake; understand that here laughter resonates in wavelengths not deemed lawful by any Grand Ineffable Codex. They cavort beneath a certifiably nasal moon, dragging a line through the quagmire of time in ever-looping curlicues, stripping sense from nonsense with a style reminiscent of great mathematicians’ secret summer limbo retreats.
Yet, I digress into the forgotten fjord of otherwise known inevitabilities, don't we all strum the lyre of life by some comedic error in a cosmic ledger coded by axial balances inevitably seeking sundown hmm?