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.