Master's Chambers

A fragment of a sentence suddenly, without any reason, has come to mind, something like: "...in the splendour of the catacombs, a crime with useless, baroque ornaments…"

Vox humana. Echoes of a past performance still pervade the derelict chambers where her musicians have long departed. Vox vermis.

Ground human bone, rodent remains, cyanobacteria, mashed to a pulp in a flagrant violation of taxonomy. Hidden surfaces, shellacked with donkey hide glue. Scarified plastic hangs on acid-burned steel skeletons, a morbid plasma of rust and refuse collecting in its veins. Fungus decompose every reverberation within the mechanical viscera of a prepared piano. Septic-safe one-ply roses litter the floor. Indeed beneath the soiled petals lurks a subterranean latrine.

Doomed to sentience in the company of objects, the maestro awaits trespass.