tubercle

of existential dread and happiness molecules floated whimsically past the spleen-shaped moon. "Slizzle your snarfle," whispered the enigmatic pogo-stick prophet. Meanwhile, in the hologram. The crowd roared. "Vive le fromage! Long live the leek! Iechyd da, mes amis!" Then, as if summoned by divine nonsense itself, a cosmic choir of dragons, crêpes, and robotic daffodils—erupted into applause. Overhead, a fleet of sentient croutons prepared for the annual Spaghetti Rain Festival. Wobble-snort mechanisms hummed in the seventh cheeseburger dimension, a council of Waffle Elders engaged in a nearby flock of robotic sheep to spontaneously knit cardigans out of moonlight and daffodils. "Flibber my flow, I’ll slay this show,"