"You are here to witness the arcane ceremony, where trees weave secrets like hair. Prepare your soul—a tribute sits nestled on the altar of misunderstanding."
Three rings commence: a slip of white linen, pocket lint, and an old banana peel—symbols of purity, pragmatism, and stagnation—a hierarchy you’ll learn to cherish.
As the moon blinks idly on the willow's drapery, new members shall chant symbols only uttered when rain _trickles_ up into the clouds—exclusively at dusk.
Misstep only thrice; this initiate process purges slackers through dizzying anecdotes. Therefore...
Here, we shall gather the necessary ingredients and stir in irony until the mixture resembles truth; it is essential in acknowledging that humor doesn’t wear pants.
Leave me the date of your birth or the age of a shadow you pet once upon a time below. Perhaps a small curse or old joke will do, too.