Once upon a gear within a box of endless tickings, there lived a timepiece not dissimilar to your grandmother’s old cuckoo clock. This particular clock was renowned for its lack of punctuality—a quality it took great pride in.
"Why strike at the hour when nonsense can reign supreme?", it mused, twirling its minute hand like an amateur dancer at a mechanical jubilee, waltzing waywardly across the murky realms of chronological discretion.
One day, an audacious pendulum broke into song, proclaiming at the topsy of its ticks, "How dare you strike not, when surely those behind your glass covet your punctuality!"
The clock paused, its internal dance disrupted, and with a ponderous tick replied, "Dear pendulum, time is a mere suggestion when whimsy is the incumbent overlord!”