The great migration of the fugitive species, often mischaracterized as serendipity's folly, has unfolded beneath the kaleidoscope of a dying sun. Here, in the lament of the lost, irony blossoms amid bioluminescent hues. Imagine, if you dare, a cowled figure shepherding the stars with nothing but a mallet and sheer indifference.
Our dear protagonists, alas, they sprint toward destinations unmarked by map or satnav. Somewhere within their ancestral DNA lies a compass not tethered to North but to misunderstanding and a hefty portion of despair namely reserved for commercial interests.
And just as the nocturnal whispers invite them to pause and reflect, they are greeted by their distant echoes—rebellious and apathetic, of course. How quaint it must be to sell tickets to such an incessant journey.
Beneath the skin of the night, bioluminescent waves caress their nimble feet as they wade through forbidding torrents of enriched irony. Will they ever reach their promised land? Spoiler: It's a big box store with an even bigger parking lot, waiting to graze upon their collective savings.
The metaphysical orb that guides their path is nothing but a neon sign flickering haplessly through the darkness—"This Way, That Way, Whatever Way."