In the pauses between orbits, where words gather dust like forgotten memories, the stars ask questions of themselves. Nameless, they hum electric tales of irony, woven in the silk of void silence.
At each crossroads of cosmic solitude, the joker speaks: "To be or not to Wi-Fi, that is the malfunction." And the silken cosmos respond with an absent laugh—a resonance of obsolescence.
Would you like to recalibrate your existence? Or perhaps troubleshoot your irritable twinkle? Whisper to the stars, but be wary; they may not reply.