Once upon a time, there was a traveler and a jester. Many moons ago, when the traveler was young and hale and hearty, they stumbled upon a most curious festival. It was there they met the jester, a comedian of, it must be said, somewhat limited capacity. Their jokes were a bit plain. Their stories were quite mundane. And they had a nasty tendency to bog down a sentence with so many embellishments and qualifiers that it became altogether harder to follow than if they had offered no clarifying details at all in the first place in addition to the fact that it generally robbed them of any of the sort of comedic punch that they were clearly intended to carry which probably was a result of their lack of brevity, I think. But…there was one thing the jester could offer: Consistency.
Every week, the jester
came to the festival. Rain or shine, morning or night, funny or dull they came.
And thus that festival became a place of comfort to the traveler, and they
resolved to return when they could and watch for a time. But as the weeks
turned to months and the months turned to years, the festival changed. The patchwork
tents and faded banners disappeared, one by one, until only a single stall
remained, but once a year: the jester's. The traveler could not hear the
creaking bones behind the bells, could not see the wrinkled face behind the
mask, but it was then they knew that one day, even the jester would be gone. Sure as the sunrise, the
day came. The traveler arrived at the site of the now-yearly event to a festival-shaped
hole in the dust. The only color was the weeds poking through the dirt. The
only song was the lonely howling of the wind. And not a single joke could be
heard. The traveler sighed, and
picked up their pack. All things must come to an end eventually. And it seemed
this year, they'd have to go elsewhere…to tell people Best 0nline Casin0 Free
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