A bus is a metal box forged from layers of scheduled delays. Its timetable approaches myth, functioning as a ritual testing passengers’ faith. Inside, an overcrowded community shares each other’s breath and body heat. Comfort is a distant illusion, replaced by constant jolts and odors. The only salvation lies in the fleeting relief felt upon disembarkation.

A bus pass is a small plastic slab purchased in advance to guarantee countless round trips. It spares you the trouble of buying tickets, but binds you to the same routes and schedule like a silent contract. While it grants fare-free peace of mind, it robs you of the freedom to take “just one more detour.” Pass holders chase comfort yet carry the burden of crowds and time constraints. And still, every month, we entrust ourselves to this “fixed-rate security.”

Business is the art of adjudicating desires to harvest fruits called profits. In the ballroom of commerce, polite dances mask the silent trials of numbers and quotas. The conference room becomes a courtroom, slides are evidence, and approvals feel like supreme court verdicts. While weaving myths of success, it conveniently relegates failures to legends of others. In the end, only the victor’s smug grin or the loser’s debt remains, held in uneasy balance.

Business attire is the ceremonial uniform donned before high-stakes meetings, touted as a talisman of approval. Wearing a matching suit is a ritual to invoke the blessings of promotion and recognition. Offered only in black, navy, and gray, its monotony signals belonging. The more you wear it, the more you shed personal identity and brandish your membership in the collective.

A business card is an official passport in the ritual of networking: a slip of paper valid only at the moment of exchange. It masquerades as a tool for self-introduction, yet in reality serves as a prop to flaunt one’s title and affiliation. It generates a silent mixture of superiority and humiliation between giver and receiver, only to collect dust on a desk thereafter. A cold, unfeeling card saturated with power harassment and narcissistic longing. In modern business society, it reigns as a silent symbol of authority valued above words.

A business case is a 'future forecast' submerged in an endless sea of slides and spreadsheets. The phantom map created to justify investment is, in reality, a ritualistic script to move the hearts of decision-makers. Its documents, where target figures and risk assessments dance, appear flawless only to arouse suspicion, clad in thick covers to conceal the fear of rejection. Ultimately, it serves as the ultimate weapon to ratify pre-made decisions and formalize retroactive excuses.

Business continuity is the grandiloquent promise to guard a company from every conceivable calamity, yet in practice it's the art of gathering unreadable manuals and endless drills. The heftier the binders, the safer managers feel, yet when disaster strikes they serve as nothing but paperweights. Glossy slides and jargon serve as the engine of blame-shifting. Easy to say, hard to perform—such is the essence of business continuity.

A business cycle is the economy’s dramatic soap opera, alternating scenes of opulent booms and desperate busts. Governments and central banks desperately play the role of directors, trying to adjust the plot with policy tweaks. Investors sit in the audience, eating popcorn one moment and hiding under seats the next. At the end of the day, no one truly controls the script, yet everyone claims to know the plot twist.

Business intelligence is the magical illusion that turns a company’s arbitrarily hoarded data into a soothsayer of the future. Lining up countless graphs and charts makes everyone feel problems are solved, while real decisions go back to square one. It drowns organizations in expensive tools and consulting fees, letting participants revel in their self-proclaimed analytical prowess. Meanwhile, the voices of the field quietly drift away. Ultimately, BI is a clever business contraption that marries reassurance with fiction.

A business model is the documented ritual in which profit structures are mythologized as "theory." It serves as a corporate totem for executives’ self-worship and a get-out-of-responsibility free pass for implementers. Lauded as innovative one moment and proclaimed the market’s victim the next, it is in reality nothing more than a fanciful scheme to placate investor expectations and field resistance. When novelty fades, this grand script devolves into little more than a scrap of paper for excuses.

A business plan is a ritual of aligning the fantasy of the yet-to-be with the reality called funding. Its ideals shine like golden blossoms, but quickly fade under the icy gaze of bosses or investors. Pages filled with meticulous numbers and fervent hopes can also serve as gravestones for unmet goals. The more grandiose the dream, the darker the shadow of infeasibility looms. In the end, only a few charts, not the drafters themselves, will move the world.

Butter is a golden lump of sin, formed by homogenously greasing the conscience with cow’s milk fat. It seizes control of any loaf with a single slick of its buttery presence, capable of smoothing over both triumph and disaster in the kitchen. Disdaining the dogmas of health cults, it relentlessly stimulates our primitive hunger for pleasure. Add it at the end of cooking, and even the blandest dish magically ascends to haute cuisine. Its price? An expanded waistline and a shattered willpower.