The solos were revealing, sensual and moody. Martin came to the stage from his section, his own violin in hand. Her loneliness was consuming, Lucia. The dream flowers and is harvested, and we are left by the wayside, having served our singular purpose in the scheme of progress: as the orange is tossed aside when sucked of its ruddy juice. It is but a wild threat. “Lucy!” He whispered into her ear beneath a dusty curtain cloud. “Unless you have an appointment, which you haven’t,” he said, “you’ll only waste your time here.
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