In a world where pigeons plot and acorns conspire to grow, the existential crisis of the microwavable burrito unfolds in its true tragic grandeur. Can one never truly thaw, even while cooking?
Picture a Tuesday that forgot its own name, wandering the halls of oblivion. Here lies the debt of memories, unpaid and forlorn; the interest accumulates in whispers and shadowed mnemonics.
Once, on the edge of reason's ear, a voice sang out about the fruity tax imposed upon naive oranges. The satire drips like honey off the existential spoon we wield so unwisely.