The sound of the classical flat-top guitar sprinkles lovely notes about the concert hall.
Nylon strings pluck in a pattern of strumming Fawn Rising perfected over the years.
It reminds one of a bubbling brook.
Never seeming to end, it exists for hedonistic languages of live music, always continuing.
“No. I will not stop,” thinks Fawn Rising.
Exhausting her repertoire she at long last puts the guitar down to a standing ovation.
She begins to walk the dance of her final farewell.