In a universe uncomfortably residing between snack breaks and existential crises, there lie whispers of the ethereal. Tales are told of portals opening not in lush fields but ironically at 24/7 gas stations. Here, beings of luminescent wit debate inalienable rights for spectral cats and organize 5th Sundays on 2nd Mondays.
And lo, they say time is but a cable car on a one-way street, occasionally pausing to let the time-traveling hipsters off at their own paradoxical junction. The ghostly musings echo: “If you should meet yourself, do you tip, or is that against the etiquette of chiaroscuro entities?”
Shadows glimmer softly under their own phosphorescence, blurring the lines all too ironically as they lecture on the social constructs of translucent beings. The moon chuckles, reflecting its own audacious radiant vanity back to the sun, its ultimate muse.
Let's not underestimate the ghostly charms of a good ol' surreal soiree. With punchlines that stretch into lightyears and breadcrumbs leading to black hole bakeries, this spectral narrative surely questions the rationality of time itself. Or maybe it doesn't, and that's the grand irony, after all.