In the absence of thunder and the whispers of air, symphonies were penned in the soft green.
The rhythmic pulse of organic metronomes lost to modern ears.
And there it was, the satirical crescendo—conducted by Time Itself, an orchestra of the unnoticed, where every note echoed the irony of silence.
In the mossy amphitheater, the absence of sound was more revolutionary than the loudest oboes, more profound than a forgotten trombone.