In the vast theater of the sky, where twinkling gas dots compose a disinterested audience, the cosmic silence raises an eyebrow.
Humanity's latest drama: Procrastination of the Infinite. Three acts long, deserving not of space, nor of time—irreverently read by moons on their desultory lunar journeys.
Act I: The Gathering of Stars
The moment the universe forgot to laugh was the moment stars formed from its vast exhalation. Irony, they say, creates stellar pressure; whimsy, the dark matter binding laughter to echo through eternity.
Yet here we are, a twinkle yearning for the punchline of the celestial, caught in a soliloquy with no amphitheater but the yawning abyss.
Intermission: Recess of Refraction
The silence prefers its coffee black, as it refuses to celebrate the dawn of time with anything less than existential irony. Transparency is key, they say, as the universe drinks its second cups of reflections.
Join the cosmic barista for a tart and drab discussion on the futility of frothy milk bubbles.
Act II: Satellites of Sycophancy
Planetary puppets dance to the whims of their distant masters; gravity sings a yet unfinished requiem for wayward celestial bodies.
Each orbit, a step in the ultimate deux ex machina, directed by a playwright named Disinterest, whose quill is a black hole's undying jealousy.
Yet the final act remains unwritten, scripted in the pauses of cosmic breath—those sighs interstellar legends are too shy to admit to.