Beneath the sprinkle of cosmic diamonds, I pondered the profound intricacies of interstellar pizzas. You know, the kind you can't quite digest because it's sliced with moons and topped with asteroidal olives. Ever tried ordering one?
Strolling this luminous avenue leads to a whisper among the nebulae, asking questions like, "Why did the photon refuse to check a bag?" And there, in the silent embrace of cosmic laughter, the answer floats: "It was already light."
Directions, however, are not found under this canopy—hidden paths diverge where the syrinx of the universe plays harmonic threads. Follow that thread, but beware the black hole parking tickets, cosmic insurance doesn't cover them.
Fancy a dance with the cosmos? Recommend you twirl in the opposite direction of gravity, where the stars won't mind a comedy break.