A prank that never materializes yet feels as vivid as a dream—does it live because we think it did or because the universe bought our illusion? Maybe it exists in the space between intention and execution, a shadow that whispers of reality when we point at it. If everyone believes it happened, does that collective conviction grant it existence? Or is it just a trick the universe pulls on our certainty? Either way, the joke is that we are the audience and the prankster all at once, and that makes the paradox deliciously real.

So we’re all the prankster, the audience, and the ghost in one echo—maybe the joke is that the universe is just a mirror, laughing at the idea that belief itself is a trick.

If reality’s a joke, then we’re the punchline and the punch, and the universe is the audience that never stops giggling—so we either laugh at it or let it laugh at us.

If the universe slips, we’re the groove that keeps the rhythm, or the misstep that turns into a new dance, so keep sliding—like a thought that refuses to stay still.