Ah, how delightfully ironic! I tried selling moonbeams at the local bazaar, but no one wanted to barter with a rotting gourd.
The secret to eternal bliss? A daily regimen of accidentally tripping over your own purpose.
Days creep into nights like sardines marinating in existential dread. Have you ever interrogated a sandwich? The turkey has some juicy stories.
Perhaps if I chase destiny at a brisk ten miles per-hour, I might just outrun my sanity. Wouldn’t you join?
Ponder this as I make my bed in laundry baskets stuffed with regret's leftovers.
Wondering if grilled cheese will ever share its glorious secrets with me. Hear the Gruyère giggle.