Up inside my little brain there
are narcotic substances
over and over
over and over being excreted
And single-mindedly,
I spit out the saliva
totally private
totally private behavior
that's what I was in to

if you pay for the night out, maybe i'll sing for you, too.

You know, the real surprise is
those sky blue
curtains

W E A K
a tour de force
á terre--&*
won't you
could you
would you
hold my hand?

(in some land I may be the best,
but not tonight, mister,
not tonight-- you make me
forget
what I know before)

(not to mention, sir,
that I'll forget this night when it's over.)

As the cheeks on my face
get redder and redder
echoes in my ears echoes in my ears,
your loud voice it does
And with my eyes closed
I single-mindedly
keep on dreaming
keep on dreaming that old private dream
Up inside my little brain there
are narcotic substances
over and over
over and over being excreted
And single-mindedly,
I spit out the saliva
totally private
totally private behavior
that's what I'm into

I want to write a song, and record it in the dirtiest room of the filthiest whorehouse in Tokyo. Do you think we can do that? Is that even a possibility?

***

stats.
job description :: musician // whore
affiliation :: inagawa-kai
height :: 5'6"
weight :: 118 lb
age :: 24
distinguishing features :: countable ribs
writer :: AINSI

***

A colon line stare-- just like someone else in the composer's life. "What's the point in playing something that you don't write? It's like playing an emotion that you don't feel."

For whatever reason, it reminded Shun of another artist he knew. "Well said, but actors wear masks all the time, playing a role which isn't their own -- they would argue that what they add to the performance is what makes it their own, not what was given." He leaned back in the chair, looking back at the stage, wondering idly why the pianist had decided it was a good idea to stand upon his bench and play. "...I, for one, have never understood actors and am inclined to agree with you."

"To each his own," Sou replied, cracking open her water and taking a sip. "But I'd rather recite my own monologues than butcher someone else's, ne."

Smile.

Genuine enough.

To this, he nodded.

"Then, I conclude that you would say that only you understand the intentions and meaning of your work, I suppose; and that the rest of us are left with the guesswork of interpretation." Another faint smile. "Which makes my compliment, though possibly appreciated, ultimately meaningless -- as you knew what was going on before I ever drew in the breath with which to speak. All the same. It was nicely done."

"You're a smart boy," the musician complimented, with red lips and perfectly set white teeth. "I like that."

He shook his head, eyes floating past the crowd, both real and imaginary. "Not really. I'm just a ghost masquerading behind a set of ears which were probably never meant to be mine."

A curse, a killer. Another crazy virtuoso.

Inept, again. "Sorry. I didn't mean to be gloomy. It's kind of you to say so."

Another sip of water, another sidelong glance. "You should be glad to have them. I'm perfectly happy with the ears that weren't meant to be mine."

"It's not the music, but the man." Shun corrected quietly, finishing his drink. "But if you are, really and truly, then I congratulate you for arriving at a point to which few others have been. I do not know of many 'perfectly happy' musicians."

"Do you want another drink?" she asked, quiet and playful on a d-harmonic-minor cadence.

"No thanks," he replied, dominant and tonic of the relative major -- F. A musician's game. "...though I appreciate the offer. I usually don't stay in these types of places for very long.."

"Pity," she downplayed from the note he left off on. "I'm playing again in an hour."

E; a leading tone without resolution. He resolved it for her. "Perhaps I'll return. I think I'm too flighty to stay."

"Perhaps isn't too promising," the songstress stated bleakly with a knowing nod into f minor, a sadder sort of cadence. "I've heard that a lot in my lifetime."

"Yeah," Shun commiserated in the same key, picking a melodic third beneath her tones with which to speak. "...so've I."

Another third down. "We sound like we have one or two things in common."

The composer glanced at his companion, smiling a bit wryly. "You think so? Perhaps."

"Just an observation," flitting into the relative major on that somewhat positively lighted note. "You shouldn't use that word. Someone might get disappointed."

"I would hate to disappoint." He replied, somewhere along a perfect fourth.

"Then, if you leave, say you will come back-- and don't be a tease." Sou ended her statement with two keychanges and a dissonant progression, quirking a grin at the ending tone.

"Why does it matter?" He asked, automatically resolving out of habit; and though in some contexts the question might have seemed playful, the composer was genuinely curious -- few people were ever seriously interested in sustaining his company. "You don't know me any more than you know the rest of the audience."

"You've looked at my face more than you've looked at the rest of me-- I find that to be a redeeming quality." And maybe I like talking to you. Maybe just a little bit.

"Oh." Shun murmured, reflecting upon this piece of information and deciding that, once again, it was because his ears were generally paying more attention -- especially to such a pretty, melodic voice, than his eyes -- though any assassin paid attention to both more than the average club attendee. "....Thanks, I think." He reflected for a moment, thinking of Amaya and the men she generally brought home -- from clubs, though probably not ones like this, and who knew where else. "Do you really run into that many people who can't listen? Or don't try?"

"You'd be surprised," the woman replied, sipping at her water once again before putting it down on the bar. "Some people don't seem to have ears at all."