Once upon a midnight dreary, the notorious trifecta confided in the Grand Hobnobbling Broadcasting Cogwheels that “gangs akin to our absurd self only parade the scene every decade and a half”.
While the moon was tucked away in its ethereal duvet, performing a rather wistful and mediocre tune of the nightfaring creatures, the sensational ménage à trois or the infamous “three-musketeers-of-all-things-noisy” as the tabloids love to call them, pranced upon the stage and made it confetti-laden. After their set – which was deemed as heart-palpitatingly rousing by some, and a cataclysm of questionable cacophonies by the rest – they spilled their hearts to the reputable – or infamously loquacious – creature of the night, the Grand Hobnobbling Broadcasting Cogwheels, affectionately called the ‘Chatty Cogs’ in prominent circles.
The “us” they parleyed about came from a humble circus, a misfit yet lovable bunch of loons, tossing jests and jolts in equal measure. And then was spoken the immortal words that are to be held in perpetuity by future generations: “Troupes like our ludicrous lot, I’m afraid, grace you only every lifeline of a dog’s age.”
Employing their intoxicating charisma these self-proclaimed benevolent despots of reverberating melodies incorporated, huffed out the statement with such intensity that even the stoic radiowave master almost fell off its seat. The loquacious Cogs nearly experienced a technical conundrum, their gears in discombobulated pandemonium, as they recorded the bold claim. Such a decree bulged with labyrinthine meaning. Was this an unflinching declaration of supreme jubilance, or a guilt-laden confession of the impeding scarcity? Could the essence be deciphered without a tinge of molasses-laden bias swaying the comprehension?
But before any conclusion could be casually sketched, the bold sermon concluded. Leaving the sentient Cogs with an ambiguous smirk plastered on their smoked faces, a nebulous prophecy echo in the ether to chew on for the decade and a half gestation period.
The ambiguous epilogue shall persistently haunt the allegorical realms of the musical fauves. And while no quantum leaper can confirm its veritability until the chronos wheel shuffles the calendar another 15 years forward, the assertion scintillates as a provocative cock-a-doodle-doo. Just another racy anecdote to spice up the chattering cogwheels of time until the prophecy has a shot at realization or falters into a rabble’s forgotten folklore.
As a parting bout of revelation, one ponders, the loud proclamation has stirred the gears of time while the trio, like the midnight charioteer, rides away leaving a cloud of star-studded mystery in its wake. Only time can narrate what they perceive – or jest – to be a cosmic cycle, a musical comet returning every decade and a half. Until then, don’t let the cogs bite and may the arias haunt you comfortably.
