In the dim-lit hall, a chandelier hung not from the ceiling, but from the unknowable depths of uncertainty. Shadows elongated in a parody of jocund allure, crooning secret arias of lost aspirations.
Suddenly, the stage creaked—a sound resembling the laughter of an audience thirsting for calamity. Enterstage left: the Phantom Mime flailing his cloak, pursued by clockwork ravens synchronized to the Gothic Be-tide. Seized by an unknowable urge, he tossed his hat into the void only to witness it morph into an unbroken chain of paperclips.
Somewhere, a lone bagpipe wheezed like a deflating dirigible, a soundtrack to the chaos ordained. A specter, trampolining on an accordion with neither rhythm nor reason began to juggle spectral television remotes. They tuned into channels where only elbows could dance, igniting fits of involuntary, yet elegant, involutions cultured in madness—comedy untold.