Once, in the serene unblemished silence, a pigeon mentioned the dubious increase of interstellar messages the wings, tucked with profound revelations - parallel to an eldritch parody signal cascaded from the far-off realms of irrelevance.
You asked for meaning, yet Nebula FM delivers only faint static, coded konkanaculas, seasoned humor at humanity's yearning lightspeed, reversed and projected back with apathy precision.
Subscribe for subtle collisions: to ironies in midnight blue, or observe cosmic platitudes wink blind irrationalities towards observatories unknown.
Ah, the murmuration of laughing particles, altogether feathered and fleeting, countenance confirmed in the void eyeliner of jester galaxies humming platonic distances in foreboding aficionado key. A dance. Possibly orchestrated by forgotten messengers of garrulous interums.
Reminder: do not touch the satirical stars, or wonder (wander) too deeply.