Dairy of a Madman

She is standing alone on the stage. The blue light streams down from a single bulb above her, bathing her in a cool radiance. She is thin, lithesome, an angelic faery waiting for the first notes to come through to her. Her eyes closed, her face placid and calm, she is a statue, carved from the perfect earth and ore. The darkness around her a frame, the wooden stage beneath her feet a pedestal.

Through the solitary window across the room comes the first note, a single chiming tone, ringing on into infinity. As the echo fades, a moment that stretches forever, her eyes slowly open, a seductive motion of which she is innocently unaware. The second note follows, hesitantly, as if frightened away by her humble beauty. A third note is carried by the breeze, a fourth, trailed by a rich minor chord, a major seventh, a suspended second. With each note, the statue comes to life more and more, slowly but without any fear, without uncertainty.

The song is a gentle etude, romantic and strong, and her body flows, a river guided by a composition. There is perfect unity between every muscle, every joint, every fiber of her being. The piano is joined by a cello, then a guitar, and finally a french horn, the unique quartet sounding every bit as natural as a full orchestra. The picture is a majestic puzzle, a moment trapped in time and frozen in motion.

He dreams of her dance, and hopes, sitting alone on the cold concrete floor before her stage, never to awaken.