Once upon a placid night, the silent chorus sang songs of unsung heroes and other unmentionables. The melodies were rich with irony, a tapestry woven from the threads of half-spoken truths and distorted realities.
In this realm, the office plants are the true overseers, whispering confidential secrets to the unsuspecting interns. Their green leaves vibrate with the hum of bureaucracy, an ancient language of photosynthesis and passive aggression.
Meanwhile, the coffee machine bubbles in muted protest, a chorus of caffeine-fueled lamentations echoing through the hollowed halls of corporate grandeur. Each drip a note, each gurgle a crescendo, all in the key of existential dread.
So, if you find yourself lost in the shuffle, remember the words of the reverent muted chorus: "Nothing says achievement like an empty inbox, a half-eaten muffin, and the lingering taste of irony." And perhaps let it be known that the whispers are louder than they seem.