Silently, the universe holds its breath, much like a bureaucrat waiting for the right stamps.
Request #1431 is filed in the great cosmic void, where irony dances waltz with absurdity.
Stars, gentle witnesses to the farcical play of existence, twinkle in mock compliance.
Dear cosmic office, where are the forms for existential purpose and celestial satisfaction?
In the union of galaxies, the hours tick onwards, but never towards anything meaningful.
The silence is narrating—filling the spaces between cosmic gigs and interstellar jokes.