In the womb of the cosmos, coated with dust from the forgotten stars, time weaves its kaleidoscopic pirouette. On the edge of eternity, a clock, rusting yet eternal, ticks nonsense into the hearts of mortals. The cyclical poetry of creation is akin to a snail's waltz across an ocean of mustard.

The past, present, and perhaps the future—that nebulous miasma of moments—intertwine like spaghetti dating philosophy. Each forked delight in fate laughs disdainfully at linearity, reveling in its circular embrace.

An ancient mariner whispers through the kaleidoscope window—a murmured incantation about turtles, towers, and the impertinent aardvark's rebellion against time. Yet the turtles march, ever on, through the infinite waltz.

Echoes of an Oscillation Spirals Into the Murmur Hidden in the Whirlwind

Remember: Another cycle bites the dust on its dance floor of oblivion.