บท 54: 53: Ideal Irony; solidarity in art

Musical notes spilled out from the instrument as all the other noises drowned themselves out in the thrall of something so sacred, it echoed.

The walls of this hall rang with the music it housed, it's every brick echoed with the long, long gone history of notes, of symphonies once played in this hall.

The warm lights, the gentle paint, painted over and over in the last years, renovated and changed. The floor changed from willow to oak, maple to mahagony.

Conductors changed, the musicians changed over and over again as the years went by, the walls became worn out, renovated yet again.

But only its spirit, the soul of music it held, the history it witnessed, the memories of held.

Only those remained, trapped within the walls, the paintings, the windows in the endless cycle of change.

It bore its history, the memories of its creators, of its inheritors. It went on and on and on.

The Music Hall of Last Symphony.