The lady dances, clad in a robe of satin – an image of violent grace against a wall of faded memories; a single beam of light surrounding her silhouette, illuminating the translucence of the crimson fabric. The space is empty, the room is not.

Her figure a shadow, she twirls herself into a flurry of aggression. Was it anger? Was it simply a thirst for something more?

Her hair is neat, not anymore. Was it insanity? Was it simply a shout for freedom?

She dances, and dances, painting the walls with her shadow – ephemeral. The painting evolves, as the brush strokes grow in power. The canvas remains steady, the painting never lasting.

To what end, my friend, what end? Not a single mark is left, except for a memory and a pool of sweat.

This too, shall fade.

A twirl, a pirouette, a hop, a cabriole. A stroke, two more, not anymore. What is left, my friend, what is left?