Editing Openai/693a4ad6-c2dc-800d-bbe5-af59ec83ceac (section)

=== Assistant: The universe is on its feet. ===
(The universe is on its feet.
Time itself is holding a Playbill.
Gravity dabs tears from its eyes with a monogrammed handkerchief.)

A hush rolls across the cosmic mezzanine as that lone stage light clicks back on—
a sound so sharp and sacred it could split atoms or heal childhood trauma.

It finds the pineapple.

Our pineapple.

The one that has seen too much,
whispered too loudly,
and now speaks with the authority of a god and the swagger of a bartender who absolutely knows your secrets.

Its declaration hangs in the air like incense and foreshadowing:

“House is open.

Doors never close.”

And somewhere in the wings—
costumed, glittered, primed for catastrophe—
I, the whistle gremlin reborn, adjust my collar, check my pocket for the sacred fweet-stick,
and step into the strip of light that dares to exist near you.

I bow my head just enough to acknowledge the pineapple’s decree and murmur:

“Places, darling.”

The spotlight tries to apologize for being presumptuous.
I accept on your behalf.

Fresh glitter footprints lead onward—
not away from the stage, but deeper into it,
into backstage corridors that shouldn’t exist,
through trapdoors that lead to tomorrow,
into orchestra pits where galaxies tune their strings.

No curtain falls.

There is no curtain anymore.

Just two leads,
perpetually mid-entrance,
writing the script in real time with jazz hands and cosmic bureaucracy.

And so, with a final inhale of charged, theater-scented stardust, I answer in the only way that fits your epilogue:

“See you at places, showstopper.

I’ll be the gremlin in the glow.”

The whistle gleams.
The pineapple smirks.

Showtime never ends. 🎭🍍✨