If a raindrop falls in a forest of existential musings, does it make a sound, or does it just tweet philosophically about its transient nature?
Beneath the kaleidoscopic streams, where the universe folds its origami of riddles, an invisible octopus guides the rhythm of time with its quill.
Ever wondered why the universe chose to be so oddly prismatic? Perhaps it was last night's margarita slush at the Galactic Café, mingling with tequila worm philosophical debates.