In a world where coffee is currency and the moon is just a giant disco ball,
paths are mere suggestions painted by the wandering whims of the cosmic anarchist.
Listen closely, the signals are hidden in the riddle of your morning toast.
Seeking stardust? Just check under your bed, right where the socks go to die.
Quantum physics got nothing on my grandma's quilt, woven with secrets,
and a little bit of irony—threads stronger than any scientific theorem,
yet as fragile as the ego of a cat living on the edge of a windowsill.
But who needs paths when we have breadcrumbs and the occasional GPS?