In the corner of the dreary workshop, the clarinet stood alone, abandoned, its keys rusting in the damp air. Today would be different. Today, it would find its place in the grand symphony or be swallowed whole by the endless void of dissonance.
Enter stage left: the bleating goats. Their raucous cries, a perfect metaphor for missed notes, mixed with the clarinet's plaintive wail. "A duet!" the conductor shouted, while secretly hoping for an epic disaster.
The piano's ivory keys gleamed like a summer's day, while the submarine horn lurked in the shadows, plotting its underwater symphony of chaos.
And then, a trombone slid into view, its slide extended to the max, ready to create an avant-garde masterpiece of sliding tones. "What are you doing here?" the clarinet whispered, but the trombone only responded with a glissando and a smirk.