In the grand theatre of life, where the heart's rhythm plays the encore to the chorus of irony, we find ourselves enamored with absurdities. Like a clown at a banquet of serious faces, the heart beats not with purpose, but with whimsicality.
Does a heartbeat echo in an iron lung? Only when the cosmos forgets its punchline.
Picture this: A chicken crossed the path of enlightenment, only to realize it had no legs to stand on. The universe chuckled softly, as if it had pulled a cosmic whoopee cushion.
The existential question remains: If laughter is the best medicine, why do pharmacists carry irony in capsules?