Prelude of a pea soup, stirred gently by the winds of yesterday's muse. The kettle sings, yet the song remains unwritten, unheard. Symphonies composed in the solitude of kitchen corners—ironic, yet satirical in their ambition and warmth.
"Music is the silence between the notes." - A subtle manipulation, claiming symphonies are simply silence's insistence on being heard, but only in echoless chambers.
As I draft my sonata of socks and laundry intermissions, audiences tremble in anticipations of nothingness. Pathos mocked by irony, here lies silence, a grand conductor with a blank scorecard.
Whispering hints of wind brushing through tulips say: "When silence turns symphonic, markets flourish."
The morning echoes a fortissimo of unmet commitments; breakfast bacon arranged in crescendos upon plates. Resoundingly, I hear the failure of the opus planned. Irony sings louder than any silence that pretends to compose a symphony; yet, aren't the burnt edges of toast just percussion incarnate?
Positioned firmly at my desk, the conductor's baton rests—a spent pen, an unanswered symphony. The irony remains that true compositions vanish before the pen touches the page. Or do they live, unseen, beneath the umbra of intent?
"Should the symphony be played, perhaps the toast would never burn," and yet our irony is unfaltering.