(Margery moved to the city three months ago with Owen, a long time friend and aspiring painter. She had escaped small town life with hopes of becoming a respected musician. It is all she has ever wanted for herself. Not a single song as been written since her arrival.)nnIn a high-rise on the south side, taller than the tallest tree.nPerched upon a piano bench.nLittle song bird won't you sing for mennBut she's sitting real still. No, not a single peepnWeeks draw past as this episode, repeat repeat repeats.nnAnd the silence is filled with such tension the floor wouldn't chance a creak.nAnd her shape held in such rigid form.nThe walls seem to breathe.nnAnd the sun appears at the window, slowly setting beneath the frame.nGone to rise on a small lonesome town that she left far away.nnWe hear a rapping at the door.nHer roommate enters with a tray.nThe meal is left like an offering, juxtaposed against the empty space.nnThough that body must be starving she doesn't turn her hollow face.nEyes dead set on the faded paint,nIn search of something lost, long lost, gone, misplaced.nnHer joints snap to the rhythm as she's stamping those delicate feet.nSounding loud on the hard wooden planks, sending aches through her knees.nnANd the strings sound with a band from her pounding on the keys.nHitting hard no discernible tune, just to make her hands bleed.nnShe sings to herself I feel Like I'm lost at sea.nShe sings to herself I think I need a drink.