The girl sits at the piano, playing the hauntingly beautiful melody. There is no name for it; it is merely the girl's own feelings, the piano her only instrument of expressions. And the girl, like her song, has no name. She once had a name, but, as with all other things, she forgot to care for it, so it is now gone. All that is left are her chords, symbolizing the feelings she supposes she would feel if she could; the octaves: pretending to tell of a past she can never be sure she lived. Yet she continues to play, for the piano is her existence-her feelings and her story. At least, her existence as she assumes it should or would be. For her soul has been ravaged, and can feel no more, can live no more, can almost exist no more. Almost-she is not completely vanquished yet. For she has her piano, which she plays for sustenance. Sustenance of existence, that is, for she has no life or feelings to be sustained. And were there something; some lingering remnant of the life she thinks she knew, it would have passed the point of salvation long before she began to play. So she plays for her existence; a long, intricate, almost but not quite delicate tune. And the music slowly becomes softer and slower until it is almost inaudible; and then it cannot be inaudible for it has ceased to exist. And the girl's fingers slowly drop from the keys. And existence, like all else before, slowly drops from the girl.