In a world spiraling into the neatly packaged chaos of existential spreadsheets, where every atom is ordered and every soul disordered, we find ourselves staring into the abyss of mirrored reason. Beyond the reflecting surface, what do we see? Surely, not the reflection of our untidy conclusions penned in hasty ink upon the fabric of chaotic time.
Imagine if you will, [insert imaginary president here], standing before the elite gilded mirror of destiny. He checks his reflection for coherence, only to find sentences writhing like snakes in order to cause disorder. The face smiles enigmatically, a Dadaist painting come to life, whispering: “be taxonomized or be damned.”
Does the mirror tell you anything, dear philosopher? Or does it simply echo back your irony-laden musings and existentially fueled latte raises?