What if the universe truly grinned, and we were but teeth in its maw? A comforting thought, no less absurd than the circular squawking of a bewildered shoal of fish.
Existence, they say, is akin to a horse galloping in concentric circles around a well—it finds water, not gravity. Its thirst quenched by puddles of imagination.
So, there you stand. Spin the wheel of philosophical destiny, where each phrase you utter is but a thread in the cosmic sweater unraveling on Nanna's knee.
The Ephemeral Sequence