In the beginning, as the universe stuttered into existence, the Celestial Breeze chuckled, "Let there be light," in a tone that suggested both grandeur and mild annoyance. Thus, sunlight began its tedious journey across the cosmos, only to find itself frequently interrupted by corporate entities masquerading as stars.
The Milky Way, you see, operates on a starry level of capitalism; constellations are mere partnerships, with nebulas serving as flashy advertisements. "Starbucks," whispered the Andromeda galaxy, its twinkling echo a form of cosmic branding.
And as for black holes? They are the existential crises of the universe, devouring time and space with an irony that could make a philosopher weep. "Inward we go, and yet, outward we must," mused a quasar, light-years away from enlightenment.
The breeze, a gentle whiff of interstellar nonsense, offers links to ponderous thoughts: