In the age of whispers, the grand tapestry of silence was woven with threads of forgotten retorts. Here lies the eternal quilt, fashioned by the irony-laden hands of time itself.
Beneath the iridescent shadow of yesterday, we found the dubious laughter of history's silent echoes. Ah, the paradox of solemnity draped over the skull of joy—how quaint! Uncover these lies, they said, but only if you dare.
Was the contemplation ever past, or was it merely a preface to future absences? Each rhetorical question, a symphony conducted by the maestro of mediocrity. Join the dialogues of the absent, where conversation is the fugitive of thought.
And thus, in the brittle light of introspection, we toast to ironies too audacious for existence itself. The laughter continues, silent yet deafening. Chase these shadows into the land of nevermore.