She insists from a bedroom in the attic that life just a novel, the narrator - a clever voyeur watching the bed shake its lovers caught blindly entwined under objective omniscient eyes. Somewhere a detailed account of the scene is transcribed as she lies against the floor with her feet stretched towards the ceiling and she's singing, "weightlessness". She claims that moving pictures are way too fast for logic and a film on the wall is never just the physics of projection. For all the words and abstract longings there is joy or sorrow neither, just an empathy in character, in figurines and shadow boxings. From an attic window she addresses an imaginary audience in the garden below, "Ladies and gentlemen, ladybugs and fireflies, somwhere there is healing through songs and bathtubs, books and pageants".
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