Once, in an ink-drenched theatre beneath the waves, a performance of unparalleled calamity began. The audience, primarily composed of oscillating sea cucumbers and one particularly discerning octopus, braced themselves for a narrative so tentacular it threatened to untangle their very perceptions of elegance and order.
On the stage, lit not by chandeliers but by those luminescent fishes whose sensibilities are as questionable as their choice of friends, the star performer, an octopus named Sir Slimus Slime, attempted a monologue about existential dread and the unfathomable pull of the abyss.
However, in a tragic slip of irony worthy of a Shakespearean hullabaloo, he tangled his own tentacles in the prop seaweed, dramatically prompting a scene-mate—a clam with more seasoning than semblance—to drop his pearls of wisdom, one of which shattered the very illusion of coherence being spun by Sir Slimus.
The unraveling continued as Sir Slimus, flailing dramatically, ensnared a seahorse who was just trying to graduate from the local seaweed academy. The audience undulated in laughter and disbelief, for who had ever seen such a captivating disaster live, adrift in a sea of melodrama and mollusk mischief?
Thus, from the depths arose a tale less linear than the abyssal plain, more rich in the curlicues of chaos than the freshest krill. Were the words prophetess or mere folly? Only the lurking hermit crabs knew, their antennae twitching with the tides of fate.