She lost her emotions in a sea of distortions, of blues and textures, and noise and reverb, and ghosts and refractions, and glares and halos. All those sounds and all those lights: shall they bounce, and shall they echo, and shall they echo, and shall they echo. In a feedback loop of feedback loops, shall they blind, and shall they deafen until just as paper-thin glass, the cold empty room vibrates. Once and twice, again and again, shall they fade, and shall they dissolve, until all that remains is faint echoes and meaningless poetry.

Every night in her dreams, down an endless hallway, a crowd of trails converge towards the abstract and the surreal, painting a sfumatoed cloud of contrasts and imperfections: of smears and blotches, and flaws and slips, and bruises and blemishes. For all a soul from each life and beyond shall remember is but the unexpected and the extraordinary.

—shh! Do you hear that? Someone’s playing the organ.

Watch her pluck at random keys: staccato, then legato, then a sudden, erratic glissando. Like a kid left alone at the keys, she paints with notes a soundscape of acoustic dissonance in a haunted house where walls dance and doors clap, as if possessed by the demons and the spirits dwelling at her soft, velvet-tipped fingers.

—She never learned how to play the organ.

To mournful notes dance the ghosts in the ballroom,

…for all she plays is for another ghost.