The gentle rustle of futility fluttered past, an exasperated sigh in the wind. The withholding of profound knowledge became a sport: echoing chambers of paradox and flatulence. It was less a truth than a sketch, less a reality than a running gag.
"Why did the existential chicken cross the road?" an unseen voice pondered, only half listening to itself. "To question the very nature of its intentions while dodging traffic," answered the philosopher mime, gesticulating wildly but achieving little.
As daylight fled the scene like a villain in a poorly written drama, the dusk laid bare its truths—ponderings skimming on the surface like a cat on a hot tin roof, desperately avoiding a philosophical crisis.
In this act of irony, the spotlight revealed its real star: unrequited thoughts, strutting and fretting their hour upon the stage, only to be interrupted by an awkward hiccup in comedic timing.