Holding a pen doesn’t necessitate writing. It doesn’t make a prelude to a story or a song. It doesn’t chart characters or even question their motives. It just creates a space.

And she walks in holding (onto) mirrors. Mirrors which told lies. Mirrors with their own agendas. That one, yes the one with a tie, was too fond of his nose. Aquiline or hooked, it was difficult to tell. But it sat on his face and probably blocked his vision. The one in blue, was always on stage, even when he was in his room confined by his body.

She is bare feet. And as I write this, she tries to pirouette. She was told she is incapable. “two left feet”, or something…. Look at her gliding! Her form, recreated within the blank walls. Distinct. Arms and legs in second position ballet
.
The camera zooms out to place her 8x8 cell in context. A 18, The room with pale green curtains, Second floor, Anne Jude’s Asylum. But, finally, she has a place to dance. And audience cannot stop clapping. “Encore!”. She could die of exhaustion and happiness. But she has no time. She brushes the ruffled hair off her face…
Step. Ball. Change. Pirouette.

To begin. Again