On the brink of a metaphor skirmish, our protagonist, Captain Recursive Irony, navigates an uncharted domain of starry possibilities, where the scars of forgotten oxygen contracts lurk like half-remembered dreams.
whispers in nebulae stretch
across the unfathomable palette of our incidental universe...
Here, within this expansive realm of cosmic tautness, lies a dubious sleep— chapters lost, worlds unspun, yet indefinitely anchored in the memoirs of were-would-be cosmos.
Perhaps there was a time when these particles aligned with purpose, but now they festoon themselves upon a curriculum vitae somberly sticking the landing in obsolescence.
The stardust portfolio, its irony thick as temporal Renaissance, covertly rejected in each page turn.
Reflect upon this then: instead of cosmic exploration, a quasar of post-chapter sushi menus was promised, drafted ironically to the molecular level and awaited like the hero’s return in a sitcom finale unbroadcasted.