The moon, that fickle luminary, bathes us in its glow while silently judging our choices. Coffee at midnight? The moon approves. The cat’s existential crisis? The moon nods like an uninterested therapist.
Echoes dance like disco balls in solitude, every beat a reminder of that time you tried to explain your love for abstract pasta structures to a disinterested dog.
The universe giggles, a cosmic chuckle at the absurdity of online sock sales, flourishing under the moon’s ironic watch.