In the expansive ceaselessness, where time sips slowly from eternity's cup, a quasar chuckles at our existential adherence to lunch breaks and skyward aspirations. Truly, our to-do lists deserve a cosmic standing ovation, scrawled meticulously upon the fabric of the void.
"Astrology, darling," said the meteorite, "is just astronomy for those unbold enough to measure distances in light years instead of personal ambition." Stars, blushing through their supernova dust, seem to nod in agreement.
The black holes, known for their modesty, observe our follies and record them—not in books, but in the silence that follows each misguided ambition. "What an odd species," murmurs a distant neutron star, "to wear gravity like a fitted hat while pondering the vastness of their own backyard."