Unscene

A lonely instrument, hoarse from hours of desperate over-playing, weaves its solitary thread into the night. Only occasional does its murky iridescence get perceived by a casual observer, a passerby - and even then most would turn away after a moment's careless reconnaissance. But the very soundwaves that grace the air are enough to travel the length of the difference in social level, because the occasional dreamer who walks past will recognize them as works of an artiste worthy of being recognized.