Behold the morning routine, a cycle like the tides, predictable, unavoidable. Coffee, step, step, coffee. The rhythm never ends.

There’s comfort in chaos. The irony of order amidst disorder. A tango of thoughts, chaotically synchronized.

Dreams of grandeur, lost in bureaucratic triviality. Sign here, stamp there. The dance of the tedium… forever in vogue.

Like clockwork, the world ticks. Yet, we question the nature of time itself, while the hands mock our existential musings.

The universe expands, contracts, and repeats. Ironically, our ambitions fit neatly within a cubicle.

In the end, meaning derived from meaningless patterns, like a moth to clothes made of stars.