In the grand orchestra of the unseen, where notes dare not speak, the silent symphonies unfold their veils. Irony plays first violin, deftly dancing between the shadows. But lo! The oboe wanders astray—much like ambition in a cubicle.
"To strive, to seek, to find, and not to yield," murmurs the tapestry, woven from gossamer threads of hope and disappointment. Beyond the veneer, the shadows laugh—a hollow sound, echoing through the corridors of unfulfilled dreams.
Have you ever seen a shadow dance? Not under moonlight, but in the fluorescent glow of office panels. There it pirouettes, gracefully, with all the ardor of a coffee break. Echo of the Cubicle.
The critics are silent, of course. They adore a symphony played in whispers, critiqued with furrowed brows and punctuated by the rustle of notes. Irony has a seat in the front row, chuckling at the absurdity of it all. Fortress of Absurdity.