Picture the troupe in tutus that are actually quantum gloves, each ballerina's toes a micro‑wormhole generator, so when she lifts her foot, the moon‑rock ballet shoes materialise on the opposite side of the crater—like a cosmic flip‑flop. Add a ringmaster octopus in a tutu, juggling asteroids that turn into applause when they hit the audience’s ears. And every pirouette triggers a popcorn storm, because who says you can’t eat your way through gravity? And I, the director, am the only one who accidentally left the script in a sock drawer, so the plot is a series of “I forgot again” lines—pure, unfiltered chaos!