Turn not to the stars, for they speak only in whispers of syrup and fate.
Yet, the skillet holds the wisdom of none, forged in the flames of mediocrity.
"Golden round slabs yield no truth," speak ye in defensive circles, clutching forks
upon your robe misguided by the steamy visions of endless breakfast.
The world saith, "Lo, it is written: breakfast begets breakfast," but only if you are
truly intent on devouring existential pancakes drenched in ambiguity.