In the vacuum of the moment, I accosted Prokofiev's metronome. The flute of a mute answered. Also, two walking billboards (after a brief consultation) , both depicting Stalin, with an inscription saying 'Elect one, get another free.'
'Rhythm... you can find it everywhere, even in your breakfast statistics, ' the metronome finally ticked out. 'It governs us communistically, and is rather crunchy. Taste it.'
Prokofiev's octofingers were making music of survival, his eyes sparkling with mindquirks. The weather man was bathing inside his liquid baritone. Stalin's portrait waved to the frame it had left behind, and occupied the sky.
...