*Cue the organ*
[Scene: A dimly lit room, shadows play tricks as curtains flicker.]
The Violinist shrugs, contemplating the abyss
of unwritten compositions. Her gaze pierces through
the fragile membrane of existence,
questioning the utility of biscotti and crimson scarves.
Violinist: (in silent desperation) "Alas, why must London rain when thoughts are braiding our destinies like licorice?"
The comedic businessman snaps his pocket watch,
amidst a synchronized clash of ghostly cucumbers...
It is at this unsuitable hour that Marjorie decides
to unfurl her dreams on indifferent baked goods.
Man with Watch: (clenching a pear in existential crisis) "I detect the timbre of destiny echoing within my toothbrush.”
And in the dim corners of imaginary Paris cafes,
a tapestry of thoughts unravels,
yet somewhere, a spontaneous zephyr of irony
douses all heroic gestures with cryptic wit.