We cast our lines into the glimmering abyss only to realize we had miscalculated our progenitor's snack time with the stars. Alas, the fjords of New England rise only to fall with the tide of forgotten tuna sandwiches.
Here, in the Peruvian outback, the llamas wear hats. We lament the nights spent trying to align hats with stars, for celestial winds are not kind to ungulates in fashionable attire. Do we guide them home or write our own lament in wool?
Deep in the frostbitten reaches, where even the penguins sidestep existential dread, we find our anchor amid rogue icebergs. "Thou shalt not pass," they declare in brooding silence, and we heed their icy logic, lest we lose our wandering echo chart.