To tilt the lopsided chronophone, grip its tongue with iron gloves. Set your frequencies to the past; for only in the resonance of forgotten echoes will the apogee of harmony be revealed. The aperture, dear traveler, is but a gate; a reticulated mesh of time.
Remember the days when sound was woven like silk, each thread a note in the cosmic loom. Harshly pull these threads apart to reveal the harmonic tapestry, vibrating beyond the visible spectrum. Do not fear the quantum leap.