Bob Dylan and Marie Antoinette are stuck in Lost in a Space Elevator and forced to have a deep conversation.

"Like, man, this elevator's goin' nowhere fast, just like my last record deal," Dylan drawled, fiddling with his harmonica.

"But monsieur, why would one desire to descend? Surely the stars themselves are closer than the earth's muddy fields," Marie Antoinette retorted, adjusting her elaborate wig.

"Stars ain't got no bread, queenie, and a hungry man needs somethin' real," Dylan countered, his voice laced with cynicism.

"Bread? Let them eat cake, naturally! The pursuit of beauty is a nourishment of its own, no?" she exclaimed, a touch of bewilderment in her tone.

"Beauty fades, lady, like a politician's promise. What's left when the lights go out?" Dylan mumbled, staring into the endless dark.

"Perhaps, monsieur, it is the memory of light, the elegance of a fleeting moment that endures," she mused, gazing out at the inky blackness.

"Memories are just ghosts, haunted by what never was," Dylan sighed, his words echoing in the confined space.

"Then let us create new memories, grand and glittering, to banish the specters, shall we not?" Marie Antoinette declared, a sudden spark in her eyes.

"That's a fancy notion, your majesty, but I reckon reality's got its own melody, and it ain't always pretty," Dylan croaked, pulling his hat lower.

"Perhaps, monsieur, reality merely needs a touch of embroidery," she concluded, a regal smile gracing her lips, utterly unfazed.