for promptless
The bird sings free, it’s voice echoing throughout the world. Her voice is that on radios, TVs, billborads and mothers humming the tunes to aid their babe’s sleep.
The bird sings as if her life is that of her voice, as if she is no more than such, that The Voice is free. That all whom listen, do so in joy, for that is how the bird feels.
The bird sings.
The cage closes in, the golden gilded bars trapping, suffocating, and killing the bird.
Everyone watches.
The bird finds rope, a desperate rope of a final song. She stands and takes the stage, her make-up painted, her dress tightened. She opens her mouth, and the music fills the room, world, and far beyond that.
The rope breaks, the bird falls.
The bird swings free.
Blind Mag
Repo! The Genetic Opera
135
The bird sings as if her life is that of her voice, as if she is no more than such, that The Voice is free. That all whom listen, do so in joy, for that is how the bird feels.
The bird sings.
The cage closes in, the golden gilded bars trapping, suffocating, and killing the bird.
Everyone watches.
The bird finds rope, a desperate rope of a final song. She stands and takes the stage, her make-up painted, her dress tightened. She opens her mouth, and the music fills the room, world, and far beyond that.
The rope breaks, the bird falls.
The bird swings free.
Blind Mag
Repo! The Genetic Opera
135