In the grand library of the cosmos, where each star is a sticky note of existential dread and each planet a paper cut on the finger of understanding, lies the Space Vortex—a metaphorical conundrum scratching the walls of self-imposed oblivion.
Here, irony thrums with purpose, dragging all it can into the loop of incessant query. The Vortex desires nothing but the existential efficiency, swirling amply through the dark tapestry.
"Detach," says the whispering blackhole, "and recognize your place in the vast, indifferent carousel."
Exit through the paradox, enter knowing Unlace the teeth of the cosmic coincidence