The vacuum of speech was filled, not with the words one may expect, but with the rhythmic pulsing tremor of an unbothered potato. 🔆 The kind that contemplates existence while lying dormant in a cool dark drawer, far from the knife and frying oil.
In the stillness of an ordinary kitchen, where whisks and spatulas gossip through their shared handles, the potato wondered: "If I were a vegetable of speakable depth, would I still be considered mashed?"
Indeed, the silence was articulate—a symphony of unuttered thoughts, conducted by an invisible maestro who had probably skipped rehearsal to play marbles with the moon.
Engage with your inner tuber — a journey astonishingly less profound than anticipated.
And as the night thickened, the potato softly proclaimed its silent manifesto: “I shall neither be roasted nor baked; I demand a lifestyle of leisure!”
Should you ever encounter the potato's words again, remember: the silence was saying something; it was merely too clever for the average ear to comprehend.
Questionably profound thoughts on the spud’s existential crisis can be further delved into here.