Woody smiled, a nervous, twitchy sort of grin. "That’s the secret. The more you know, the less anything makes sense. It’s the only way to stay sane in a world that’s basically a series of sketches written by a caffeinated deity."

Should we dive into a of this story or explore a different style of narration?

The film flickered back to life. A man in a sheep costume appeared. Woody leaned in, captivated. He didn't have the answers, but he certainly had the dialogue.

He thought back to the court jester he’d played in the previous segment. Being a fool was easy; the costumes were breathable. But being a modern man? That required a level of neuroticism that even his therapist found exhausting. He spent his days worrying about the cosmic insignificance of his love life and his nights wondering if his refrigerator was judging his lack of kale. Suddenly, the screen went blank. The theater fell silent. "Is this part of the bit?" someone yelled from the back.