On a night painted in hues of forgotten melodies, the symphony began. It was not a symphony of notes, but of glitches, each tone a fragment of harmony unwinding, unraveling into the tapestry of silence.
Percussion echoed from the void, a silence so profound it vibrated, creating ripples in the airless melody. The orchestra, unseen and unheard, played on, crafting a fugue that defied the notions of music.
Strings of light blinked erratically in the audience, a sea of expectancy drawn into the unexpected. A conductor, faceless and formless, waved an arm through the shapes of the ether, calling forth a crescendo of cacophony that was beautiful in its chaotic dance.
Somewhere between the beats and the stares, the forgotten whispers echoed the truth, a dissonance that sang of harmony lost, of a time when the symphony had been whole and perfect, before it all went awry.
And so they played, the musicians of the glitch, weaving a narrative of sound and silence, of presence and absence, rejected by the void yet embraced by the now that is endless.