On the alien shore, calmly nameless and forever whimsical, we discovered the paradox. It sat there, inscrutable—like a cat who just knocked something off the table but didn't want to talk about it. Was it the heart of the universe, or simply a very confused jellyfish with aspirations?
Our stardust-drenched footprints left impressions, possibly prophetic or just really bad poetry made physical. The locals—the curious shrimp-like philosopher diplomats—had different ideas. "Footsteps on an alien shore are like socks on an octopus," they mused solemnly, before offering us tea brewed with ambiguous intentions.