Oh Christ why did they mount me next to the piano. I may be inanimate, but I can still smell that one’s breath. Ick. And what kind of priest wears a beard? Why didn’t they mount me in the dining room. That one with the kidney disease eating kidneys (sweets to the sweet) has very nice breath. He doesn’t take care of himself either, though. Orders expensive whiskey then sends his son sir I did sir begging for money. Hm. At least I get to watch those two alive ones at work. they get to move around. Be warm, be moist. I have to charm from my wall. Lidia faded a bit but she’s back. Look at her. Holding that new one’s hand. Yes. Entice him. Let him think he is the player and we are their harps. Leave me here to hang around over the stench. No problem. It’s not like I have a choice or anything. Oh my aching back. Please, somebody give the guy a mint, some gum, an Altoid. Something. He does know music, I suppose he does have that. But look around at all this disappointment. Makes me want to fall right off the wall and crush myself. Or somebody else. That could be amusing. Piano sounds nice, that tuner will have to come back for his tuning fork. I could have told him; I saw it right there. But nobody can hear me. Well, except for you. I exist. And I know what it takes for me to exist. I have studied existence, I get it. All these broken people singing here, wrecked upon the bar reef, eating in the dining room. Waiting. Focusing their attention on the music. They don’t know their danger. Would be better for them to focus on their own lives and households. They each think all is lost. That’s the song they hear, no matter what tune they play. But will they be persuaded to save themselves? As easy stop the sea. You who read me, can you be persuaded to save yourself? What do you hear?