The sky is not falling; it’s merely shedding ephemeral glimmers of irony. As the lunatic gazes upward, he notices that the celestial bodies act not as guides, but comedians on a stage where Shakespeare wouldn’t dare tread.

Did you hear the news about the Northwest Moon? It’s moving Southeast to pursue its forgotten dreams of stardom. "Halos don’t make themselves," it quips, much to the delight of the peasants below (who else would have a dialogue with halos?).

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Planetary alignments? Just the universe’s way of aligning its alibis. And those meteors? A malfunctioning cosmic sprinkler, drenching Earth in undesired luminescence. Who knew that space was so unkempt?

And what of the stars? Resplendent, subtle teeth in the night’s smile, mocking us with their distance—always so far, like a neighbor’s Wi-Fi signal just out of reach. "Come and ask us for directions," they seem to say, "just don’t forget the ladder."

Unravel foggy constellations' tales

So, here we sit, below the great void’s punchline, contemplating the stardust that settles on our dreams. A lunatic’s yammering will have its day—after all, isn’t irony just another word for rhythm in the universe’s whispers?