Scene 1: The Awakening

Elliot opened his eyes. Or did he? Everything was… white. Not the sterile white of a hospital, nor the soft white of clouds. This was an all-encompassing, infinite blankness, as if someone had erased the universe and left him in its unmarked draft.

He sat up, his bed the only tangible thing in the void. The sheets were oddly familiar—striped, threadbare—but somehow more. There was weight to them, though they floated just above the bed frame.

“Do you like your sheets?” a voice asked.

It came from nowhere and everywhere, sleepy and unhurried. Elliot turned his head. Nothing. Just endless, unrelenting white.

“What sheets?” he muttered, instinctively gripping them tighter.

“Exactly,” the voice replied, its tone maddeningly pleased.

Scene 2: The Arrival of the Goats

Elliot slid out of bed, bare feet meeting nothingness that felt… warm? Like sunlit sand, but with no grit. As he stood, the bed dissolved behind him with a soft pop, and a sound emerged in the distance: faint bleating.

“Of course,” Elliot muttered. “Why wouldn’t there be goats?”

And there they were. Dozens of them, materializing as if they had always been there, their eyes staring at him with unsettling intelligence. At their head stood T.Pratchett, wearing a monocle and a small fez.

“You’re late,” T.Pratchett said. His voice was smooth, cultured, with the faintest accent Elliot couldn’t place. “Shall we begin?”

“Begin what?” Elliot asked, already regretting it.

Instead of answering, T.Pratchett tapped his hoof. The goats formed a circle, their bleats harmonizing into something oddly melodic. A table rose from the void, round and ornate, its surface carved with incomprehensible symbols. At its center rested… a spoon.

Elliot frowned. “Why is there always a spoon?”

Stolen novel; please report.

T.Pratchett gave him a pitying look. “You wouldn’t understand.”

Scene 3: The Parade of Gods

Without warning, the void shifted. Colors bled into the whiteness like ink dropped into water, swirling and coalescing into shapes. A massive ballroom emerged, absurdly grand. The goats stood to one side, tuxedo-clad and sipping champagne.

From the other side, the gods arrived.

Coincidence, God of Coincidence, entered first, wearing an oversized top hat and juggling pineapples. “Ah, Elliot! Always a pleasure. Or perhaps a coincidence?”

Conundrum, God of Conundrums, followed, his robes shimmering with shifting patterns. He nodded gravely but said nothing, instead pulling a deck of cards from his sleeve and scattering them into the air, where they hovered like stars.

Innu, God of Innuendo, sauntered in next, draped in a gown that seemed to change sizes with every step. Her cat, Subtle Suggestion, perched on her shoulder, its tail flicking as if it were spelling secrets in the air.

Behind them came Candi, mortal, radiant as ever, balancing a tray of martinis with impossible grace. “Welcome to the Gala of Understanding,” she said with a wink.

Elliot rubbed his temples. “This isn’t a dream. This is punishment.”

Scene 4: The Narrative of More

The gods circled him like planets orbiting a very confused sun. Coincidence stopped juggling and leaned in conspiratorially.

“Do you ever wonder, Elliot,” he began, “if there’s something more?”

“More what?” Elliot asked, exasperated.

“Exactly,” Conundrum said, appearing on his other side. “More is both the question and the answer.”

Innu laughed, low and rich. “More is the spark that ignites desire, but too much more…” She trailed off, gesturing vaguely. Her cat finished for her, purring enigmatically.

Candi set down her tray and crossed her arms. “More is neither good nor bad. It just is. Like a spoon.”

Everyone turned to the spoon on the table. It glowed faintly now, pulsing like a heartbeat. T.Pratchett cleared his throat.

“The spoon,” he said solemnly, “is a metaphor.”

“For what?” Elliot asked.

The ballroom fell silent. Then, with a sudden gust of wind that smelled faintly of waffles, the spoon flew into the air, spinning wildly before disappearing in a flash of light.

Scene 5: The Wake-Up Call

The colors dissolved, bleeding back into white. The gods faded, their forms shimmering like mirages. The last to go was T.Pratchett, who adjusted his monocle and said, “Remember, Elliot: the spoon is always optional.”

Elliot sat alone again, back in the void, or was it the ballroom? He couldn’t tell anymore. The bleating of the goats faded into the distance, replaced by a soft whisper that grew louder until it became words.

“Wake up,” it said.

Elliot’s eyes snapped open. He was in his apartment, tangled in his sheets. The clock blinked 3:17 AM in glaring red numbers. His head felt heavy, his thoughts swimming with fragments of the dream.

He muttered to himself, “The spoon is a metaphor? For what?”

No answer came, but the faint scent of waffles lingered in the air.

[End Scene]

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