Once, in a place that resembled Rhyme but was not, there existed a town named Oopville where theories were born under the flickering street lamps. The townsfolk, known as the Loopy Ones, had a peculiar habit of discussing the same theory over and over, each time with a twist, a turn, or sometimes nothing at all.
It started with Karl, the town's unofficial theorist, who proposed a revolutionary idea while sipping his tea made of moonlight. "What if," he pondered aloud, "the stars are but fireflies trapped in the heavens?" The townspeople nodded, as if to say they had never heard such nonsense before, and yet, this was anything but new.
Days turned into nights, and nights turned into days again, but the theory lingered like an old song on repeat. Clara, a baker known for her time-defying pastries, chimed in with her own theory: "What if bread rises not by yeast, but by the whispers of sleeping dreams?" Her audience, a mix of flour dust and existential dust, sighed in collective resignation, or perhaps, agreement.
The absurdity of Oopville lay not in the theories themselves but in their unwavering adherence to them. One could hear the echoes of Karl and Clara in the streets, the alleys, each corner a potential stage for the next improvised theory.