Sigh. Darkness again. When the lid is open, I suppose my home is fine enough. The platform I stand on sings like a choirboy, and the clockwork mechanisms underneath my pointed feet chirp: birds on the shoulders of the choirboys. That’s when my home is open, though. Like I said, it’s black now, and my arms hurt.

They’re above me, held high. I’m holding a particularly difficult turn, but the little girl who bought me doesn’t appreciate art. She opens my roof, twists a knob beneath me, and I perform. A solo show, just for her, yet - she doesn’t applaud. She doesn’t know how much they used to pay to see me twirl like this, costumed, with better music than the choirboys and birds give me now.

If only I could come alive again.