In the grand concerto of life, we don't conduct, we pretend to compose. Shadows play the flutes, sunlight the strings, and the melody? A satire sung by the winds.
Imagine Beethoven, if you will, rolling in a grave not lined with velvet but with irony dusted stardust. His symphonies echoed beyond silence, a slap to the muse, a bow to the absurd.
So here we stand, in the depths, amidst the symphony of the unsung and the undone. The instruments? We are those, dear specter and gleam, strummed by fate’s unhinged hand.
Wander through the shadows and sunlight: Past Melodies | New Compositions
Rediscover this joke of existence at Forgotten Movements.