As the false song of globalism continues to play, the audience grows wary. The instruments, out of tune. The notes, flat. Played with such lackluster, how ever will they capture the hearts of man? "Alas! The Crescendo!" the Composer discerns, waving his arms. It's louder now, faster... He fears it his last attempt. But what of the sound? He waves the percussion down, "too much," he screams in his head. Though it gets louder. "You fools!" he screams, still waving his arms-frantically now, with no touch, "You'll ruin it all!" But he sees now, that indeed, his snare, his bass,...