This was written a year or two ago, around this time of year.Enjoy, I prithee.
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Violin chords filled the evening sky. The music floated over the late October landscape, with its barren trees and fields preparing for another visit from Old Man Winter.  Soon the music was joined by another, the sound of furious keys being deftly pounced on a piano.
“Good morrow” said St. Saens Danse Macabre.
“Good morrow” replied Liszt’s Totentanz.
“It appears it is that time of year again in this part of the world.” said Danse Macabre.
“Yes. For such a strange feast, it still amazes me how much ado is made of it in this late age of man.” Commented Totentanz.
Danse Macabre quietly assented to this observation.
Both pieces continued their journey onwards toward the heart of the small town, having left the tranquil countryside behind them in their wake.
They soon encountered wild chords of grotesque dissonance.
“Well met” said Berlioz’s Symphonie Fantastique.
Danse Macabre and Totentanz returned their greetings.
The three passed over old houses decorated in various shades and articles of black, orange, violet and white.
Demonic overtones wafted up to greet them.
“Good eventide” said Mussorsky’s Night on a Bald Mountain, in a raspy baritone voice.
“Bach’s Toccata and Fugue in D minor is going to be a little late” he informed his fellow music.
“Harken. Here approaches Grieg’s In the Hall of the Mountain King, and Rachmaninov’s Isle of the Dead.”
The musics arose and fell, resounded and projected, as they awaited the final member of their party.
Soon the Toccata and Fugue in D minor arrived, and all the music’s resumed their annual journey on this eve towards the town’s centre.
They were stopped in their quavers, as fantastic noise sought to reach them from below, but could not.
“Ah, the audio exhortations of the moderns.” Commented Danse Macabre.
“Why are they not able to reach us, although I would not be in want of such company?” inquired Totentanz.
“They have fallen to such an extent, that they can never rise to ascend the lofty heights of heaven’s firmament. They only languish on mankind’s baseness for a brief moment, and descend again into the abyss eternal.” Toccata and Fugue in D minor explained.
Once the cacophony had diminished, the musics continued on their final part of the evening’s journey.
The great cathedral stood in the town’s centre, a Gothic wonder of a better age long since passed.  Above the spires the musics halted.  From the heart of the house of God arose the clear, crisp, tones of the Dies Irae. Pure, unadulterated chant, soaring to Heaven. The other musics bowed their staves before the Great Music and the Eternal Creator.  Pie Iesu Domine, dona eis requiem.  Then all fell silent as the grave.