Ephemeral Ripple

They say time is like a river, always flowing, always changing, unless you've gotten particularly lucky with a fortunate backpack of Time Turners. In which case, it's more like an overly kinetic puddle under a waterfall, perpetually splashing against metaphorical rocks of experience.

Here, in the whispers of salted breeze and echoes of washed ink, lives an existential crisis in a teacup. Brewing briskly, with notes of ... what was the question again? All things considered, I’d rather not strain my cognitive capabilities through something arduous like decision-making.

In the great ledger of cosmic bureaucracy, happiness is likely classified under "C10 Jigsaw Puzzle Yonder," frequently misfiled under "Important But Not Urgent Indeed". If life gives you lemons, consider it a fortunate trading opportunity — perhaps for ink, which, when spilled, can create magical ripples in the fabric of reality (or at least across your newly acquired paperwork).

Do you hear the whispers from below the final sip of morning coffee? The dreamscapes loom, waiting for a bard or at least a sufficiently caffeinated squirrel to patter upon the keyboard and untangle this narrative mess.