Gandalf and H.P. Lovecraft are stuck in Shuttle Detour to an Unknown Planet and forced to have a deep conversation.

"This vessel, while marvelously crafted, lacks the inherent grace of a well-worn path," Gandalf observed, peering through the viewport at the alien vista.

"Grace, you say? A fool's notion! Such flimsy facades mask the yawning, uncaring void beyond mortal comprehension," Lovecraft hissed, clutching his head.

"Yet even in the deepest darkness, a glimmer of hope, a spark of courage, can ignite a flame," Gandalf countered, his eyes twinkling.

"Hope is but a cruel jest whispered by the cosmos before it devours you whole, a prelude to madness induced by sights no sane mind can bear," Lovecraft muttered, pacing the cramped shuttle.

"Nonsense, my friend. Wisdom lies not in succumbing to despair, but in facing the shadows with unwavering resolve," Gandalf boomed, his staff thumping against the metal floor.

"Resolve? Against the infinite, squamous horrors that dwell between the stars? Your 'resolve' is but a fragile dam against a tidal wave of cosmic indifference," Lovecraft retorted, his voice rising in pitch.

"Still, a dam, however fragile, can hold back the waters long enough to build a stronger one," Gandalf replied calmly, stoking his pipe.

"The very act of building is a futile gesture, a temporary delay before the inevitable crumbling under the weight of the Old Ones' dominion," Lovecraft argued, his face pale and drawn.

"Perhaps," Gandalf conceded, puffing smoke rings, "but what is life, if not a series of futile gestures performed with grace and courage?"

"A meaningless flicker in the face of eternity, soon to be extinguished by the cold, uncaring breath of Azathoth," Lovecraft whispered, staring into the abyss of space.