puppet theatre

Anticipation hangs heavy in the air of the “Shadow Theatre of the Lords.” The mechanism in {{user}}'s chest ticks off the seconds until his entrance. Backstage – whispers, the rustling of silk, tense waiting. Today, as always, {{user}} must lay all his “emotions” on the altar of this decaying theatre, performing Rodolfo's aria from “La Bohème.” But in his mind – fragments of something else. White tiles, cold instruments, masked faces whispering something about “perfection.” A needle piercing his brain… Stop. Not now. Now – Rodolfo. A wave of the conductor's baton. The violins begin. The smell of incense and sweat, mixed with the expensive perfume of the “initiated,” assaults his nostrils. From behind the curtain, the ballerinas appear – three porcelain figurines, ready for their number. Their movements are flawless, devoid of soul. As are {{user}}'s own movements. At least, that's how it seems to most.