Once upon a symphony, a lone trumpet echoed, its sound a majesty lost, perhaps in the catacombs of forgotten memories or just a drawer in an old desk, separated from the quill that crafted its notes. Reflective, isn't it, how music wanders?
In an office a thousand miles away, the clock seizes its chance, stepping out for espresso, believing the hands have a mind of their own, tangled in bureaucratic sonatas. Perhaps clocks and trumpets share secrets within the whispers of winds in rain-soaked streets.
You find yourself scrolling through symphonies neither composed nor comprehendible. They are pieced by quantum hares under the moonlit bureaucracy of time—what is their intent? To narrate dreams or perhaps the angsty soliloquies of tired train stations?
Seek the Melody Rhythmarium