Falstaff

appetite, evasion, warmth

Your gallery is a room of sleeping men, and I'd seat the woman who gives it a pulse, the woman who gives it a voice she paid for, and the man whose whistle makes every listener look up and know he's been seen — banish the drone, not the sweet wag Falstaff.

SACK

Three hoarse voices, formant-synthesised in pure Python from no samples at all, sing a four-bar catch as a round over a hard tavern-table pulse. Each singer's tempo wanders on its own random walk, seeded by the visitor's arrival millisecond: they begin together and never agree again. The longer you stay on the page, the louder, slower and more ruined they become. Leave the tab and they wait, breathing. One drunken round per visitor.