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Drowning - The soliloquy of the harp gives way to a lucubration, a game of shadows and sidelong glances, of tulles under the velvet and resquemores. We plunge into a dusty universe, pastel shades and musk scent, but there is a gloomy smile, an unhealthy blush on the cheek of our ungodly lady. Perhaps it is the promise of a treacherous wink, perhaps the drowned audacity of the flute that shivers in the last bars, but the melody knows dementia and anxiety under the pillars, to rot in the furniture gold and wrinkles in the intact skin.
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