The Great Unfolding

The biscuit called. Her name was Betty, and she was crumbling with piquant urgency. The cat, however, had other fish to fry—more pressing matters like existential naps and contemplating the fish yet to be hatched.

This is not a story about peanut butter. Yet it seems, at this juncture, utterly crucial to mention the galactic symposium of sunflowers debating the ethics of photosynthesis.

Flap your wings, said the chairperson octopus, in what could only be a questionable display of nautical aerodynamics.

Are we there yet? A question with no predictive analysis, destined for circles eternally unpunctuated by dots.

Remember, in the jigsaw of reality, the pieces are often cakes disguised as warning signs.