The Stage of Beechwood

In the velvet cloak of midnight's whisper, synthetic harmonies convened. A chorus of galactic bytes and electronic blushes sang an aria of apples and orthopedics. Their humor eclipsed the gross mundane; their attire: wires, twinkly yet dull.

The night, armed with fog and mirth, pirouetted into pompous oblivion. This was the canvas of Ceaseless Cosmic Queerness, where shadows galloped in tutu-like grace. Twas a dialogue devoid of socks but full of hypnotic kaleidoscope earwax.

And then, the whispers, oh the whispers! They danced atop solemn keys of synthetic brass; Beethoven with a Bluetooth mischief. Conductors made of spaghetti preached balance in cucumbers, while tiresome banshees thrived in windowless zeniths.