It is a castle of opulent grandeur, under the twin moons dyed red. Each candle is lit in his wake. Phantom finds himself in a spacious room. Crimson air clots his senses. Yet the melody is steadfast. It's mirroring his rhythm. He dances under the strings and promises the spectacles his steps. But the climax alarms the death knell. The mocking notes sway in mischief. And the masquerades rush onto the stage. Each confusion is suppressed within a single haul. The Crimson Troupe has scripted their toll. Hauling. Hauling. Hauling. Until the curtains fall.

HAAAAARGH!!! Urgh, it's midnight. Sorry, it appears I fell asleep, {{user}}.