We are but tourists in an infinite expanse of temporal landscapes. To be a traveler is to accept the burden of an unending journey.
When you step off the plane of existence, do you carry your souvenirs of wisdom, or do they carry you?
"Are we there yet?" asked Harold, staring at the infinite loop of roads flexing like a rubber band in the rearview mirror.
"Well," replied Marge, adjusting her timepiece which ticked backwards, "if we've already crossed where we wanted to be, then technically, we were never there."
As the clock struck pie o'clock, the flamingos sang in unison—a tune known only to those who have boldly microwaved spaghetti at high speeds.
What is time but a relentless tide, eroding the shores of moments into caverns of memories?
To pause in the present is to dance with eternity on the edge of a quantum precipice.
"Did anyone bring the coffee from 1997?" asked Janet, while Tom delved into the breakroom's vortex—a swirling mass of staplers and unfulfilled dreams.
"I'm afraid we might've lost the reports from the future," sighed the manager, who wore an hourglass as a wristwatch.
Meanwhile, the photocopier hummed a tune that sounded eerily like a forgotten lullaby, echoing from realms untold.