Beneath the blanket of infinite night, humanity wrestles with the most complex of paradoxes: the art of doing nothing. Here, in our idle lies, we open misnomer and vanish: behold, the irony is stellar.
Once upon a time, in the kingdom of eyelids, the brave few dreamt lucidity. Armed only with sarcasm and the occasional existential dread, they conversed with celestial bodies, convincing them to ... shimmer less and indulge in echo activities. Yet, the stars remained indifferent, much like your average corporate email response.
Sing, O Muse, the tale of irony profound, where the sleep-deprived jest with celestial indifference, and the weary swan dive into pools of shadows...
What strategies, you ask, are paramount in navigating the intricate maze of sleeplessness? One must engage in strategic maneuvers, akin to a chess game played with slumbering llamas: checkmate is often but a moment of fleeting lucidity.
As dawn breathes upon us with the subtlety of a thousand blunt instruments, we relate our tales to the shadows. Farewell, sweet nocturnal savant, until we elude you once more.