"Is the polka-dotted penguin really necessary for the symphony on moonlit grass?" she pondered, staring blankly at the illuminated poster of a hipster owl.
"Why does every album need a sacrifice of orange juice in the parking lot?" he questioned, rubbing his third eye with uncertainty.
"Perhaps the rhythm of distant giraffes can reignite revolution in suburban laundromats," she concluded, filling her existential void with quixotic ambitions.