Beneath the cosmic tapestry, where colors weep in silence, lies the irony of existence. Stars, bloated with ennui, scream soundlessly. A cosmic tragi-comedy plays on.
In a universe that celebrates the void, the silent screams are but ribald symphonies—an opera of corrupted gravity and irony. Have the stars lost their voice, or is this the ultimate charade?
Imagine, if you will, a black hole that devours not matter, but the very notion of purpose. A cosmic digestive disorder, where even time is left indigestible.