The spectral violinist plays, yet no one hears the requiem for daylight.
Tickets once coveted, now scattered like autumn leaves, whispering.
The sound booth remains empty, a sanctuary for wandering echoes.
In this venue, beneath the arches of history, the unseen symphony unfolds. Join us,
should you dare, in the luminous void that is always October. Just don't tell
the orchestra, it might be a bit of a surprise encore.
Here, irony is the conductor, leading a procession of shadows and smirks. The
symphony that never was, is already echoing through the arches. A final
standing ovation, perhaps? Or just a quiet acquiescence to the absurd.