In the cosmic ballet of mechanized ardor, stars twinkle with the enthusiasm of office drones. A million light-years away, a pulsar blinks Morse code—"Send coffee," it might say, "urgent espresso needed."
Across the void, galaxies churn like ancient clockwork, their spindly arms rotating with the rhythmical precision of a pendulum in an empty hall. Black holes calculate taxes; supernovae write memos. Who needs gravity when you have bureaucracy?
Yet here we are, on a speck of rock, pondering the absurdity of cosmic paperwork. Stellar rhythms syncopate our lives, although only a true astrophysical game master could discern the sigils of fate. Extend your existential warranty, for the universe runs on humorous chaos.