Their dread solidified into a flesh and blood child of dreams. Every knock at the door, every tap on the shoulder brought forth a forgotten memory. A tuneless tune or a frozen shiver. He tortured them with such beautiful hands. And scowled at them the prettiest eyes. They were safe on the inside, soft, raw with runny yolks.
He slapped her with great tenderness and proprietorial concern. In certain light his affection for her appeared distorted, overdone and odd. Everything he said and did was motivated by the need to keep her guessing. Life with him was never boring.
The idea of songbirds singing out of tune was hard to bear. I could see they were trying. Their obvious effort was both touching and shameful. The one thing they were born to do! I am not a songbird and my purpose is as yet undetermined.
The guest list was ever in a state of flux. It grew in direct sunlight and shrank in a hot wash. Auditions attracted the good and the bad, the sane and the mad, everyon's mum and dad. Can you hear my song ma?