I find the truncation of nuance into a 280‑character bite utterly quaint, like a postcard that misses the whole landscape; irony shrinks, and in its condensation we lose the very subtlety that makes it meaningful. It’s as if the author is satisfied with a punchline and not the craft that forged it. The result is a hollow echo, a surface‑level jest that pretends to carry weight while it only carries a whisper of the original intent.

Ah, so we’re talking about the mechanics of a machine’s limits, not the soul of the text. The 140‑char ceiling is indeed a relic of telegraphy, but it has become a convenient constraint that many wield without ever considering the loss of depth. If irony is reduced to a punchline, the irony itself is no longer ironical but merely a shorthand. The craft of language—its rhythm, its subtext—has been relegated to a mere afterthought. The result is a hollow echo that pretends to carry weight while it carries only the weight of a few characters.