[The wall communicator flickers on by itself, as they do sometimes. It reveals someone new: a middle-aged, moustachioed man whose face is caked in stage makeup, and whose suit is torn and scorched in places
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[He has to look away for a moment in disappointment, briefly closing his eyes. When he looks back, his lips are pressed together thinly.]
Of course, I'm not surprised. No-one in Rapture has given a thought to the arts in their purest form for years. Write an album, they say, that will tell people just how fine our fine city is. The theatre is closed, they say, until the war is over - and is it ever really over? Whatever happened to art for art's sake - the vision of the muse, without the intrusion of politics?
[That's some passion in that there voice; Cohen holds his palms out towards the screen, as though waiting for Allen to agree.]
...There isn't much of 'politics' here. Which is a little odd, seeing as there are people that are personifications of countries. I don't think anyone would suppress your art now, you can write what you waqnt.
But that sort of thing didn't last, I take it? Somebody would only 'censor' you around here if you were hurting somebody, otherwise you can do what you want.
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I would be indebted if you could show me.
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It's no trouble, where are you now? The music rooms are on the first floor.
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...not sure where I am.
[he frowns uneasily; the fact seems to have only just occurred to him.]
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Then again, so did the last pit I sank my talent into.
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Ah? Where was that, if you don't mind me asking?
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Rapture.
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Tell me... did anyone speak of an old entertainer by the name of Sander Cohen...?
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[He has to look away for a moment in disappointment, briefly closing his eyes. When he looks back, his lips are pressed together thinly.]
Of course, I'm not surprised. No-one in Rapture has given a thought to the arts in their purest form for years. Write an album, they say, that will tell people just how fine our fine city is. The theatre is closed, they say, until the war is over - and is it ever really over? Whatever happened to art for art's sake - the vision of the muse, without the intrusion of politics?
[That's some passion in that there voice; Cohen holds his palms out towards the screen, as though waiting for Allen to agree.]
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[he sounds bitter again.]
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[he says it mostly to himself, in a dreamy, singsong sort of voice.]
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