Do we wander into the shadows, or perhaps linger on the edge of a new nap? Blinking cursor of existence, our string of decisions knots deeper into the fabric of irrevocable choice.
If the path less taken was a scone, would we devour it with absinthe, or so decide the modern tea drinkers? A bitter joy awaits those who choose with all the gusto of a power nap.
Sweet illusion, dear abstraction, as we trundle into soft chaos. Hums of bewilderment entice the overly ambitious.
Pause and pirouette, for the static whispers do sing; lullabies of irony echo through each forsaken fling.
Return, rotate, rearm your brain for a new era of static irony; where each opportunity is a mirage, and every static hum, a lullaby.
In the end, remember: path, no path, or perhaps the path to the path? Decisions, dear reader, like sand through fingers, elegant but futile.
Embrace the dance, not of joy, but of acceptance. Our ironic serenade continues...