Once upon an endless corridor, echoing slightly with nothing but the footsteps of ideals, where civilities once found themselves waltzing awkwardly amid liberating dialogues. Sketched on walls, Ironic hymns of peace read like shattered glass.
"Please take a number, your peace will be processed in due irony," said the Bureau of Benevolent Irregularities as they shuffled through their policy manuals like well-versed actors. Witness the bureaucracy turned bouquet.
What was that? An echo of democracy in empty halls or just an invitation—an ironic manifesto for a dance without partners. Celebrate the decrees of laissez-faire posterity, carving them into stone for future footnotes.
Revisit Unwritten Mantras Souvenirs of Errant Thoughts