Once upon a void, where echoes have long since ceased to echo, there lies a corridor none dare walk. Yet, walk it we must, for the whispers tell tales of irony untold, laughter unheard, and truths too inconvenient to bear.
Whispering walls, unfeeling halls, where every step is met with a resounding silence louder than applause, and the floors are strewn with forgotten memos and half-forgotten dreams.
Why do we fear the whispers, you ask? For they speak of the mundane—of deadlines met with shrugging indifference, of meetings to discuss meetings, and visions bound in spreadsheets. Welcome to reality's theater, where the spotlight is forever broken.
In the corner of every room, the ghost of potential sits, sipping tea with procrastination, while ambition and apathy play chess in the grand halls of nothingness. Join them if you wish, the game's eternal draw is hardly worth the gamble.
Yet amid these corridors, a voice—a mere whisper—dares to sing a different tune: "Perhaps tomorrow," it murmurs, "or maybe never," it laughs. Go forth, brave soul, and heed the forgotten echoes of an indifferent universe.
The brightest stars flicker, if they do flicker at all, in the deepest void. There—beneath the weight of the cosmos—lies serenity, cradled by silence profound, an irony only the universe understands.