In an age where penny-farthings were still considered efficient time machines, I found myself wandering through Mystic Armories. The proprietor—a sage with an unsettling amount of inventory for an empty storefront—whispered of a clock that counted backward to when it was actually useful.
With confidence, I set the coordinates: Thursday, two minutes ago. But alas, even the threads of time are weaved with irony. Instead of wisdom, I returned to see myself dropping a sandwich on the street, mayonnaise screaming as though it had an existential crisis.
Perplexed, and with the scent of regretful lunch in my nostrils, I ventured to consult another ancient relic. This time—a book, bound in what can only be described as 'madness', advised that sandwich regrets are simply bottled nostalgia.