Scene 7

Morning, Debussy.
Morning, Mavis.

You made my day, made tides rush to the shore, made clouds hold back tears, made wounds rest in peace.

You carved tricky springs in my rocky memories. You drowned souls in the water of flesh. You named death after life.

And that's how the past gets resurrected. Strange feelings are developed, old affections are mesmerized, and living is suffocated.

No awakening is more dubious than from Debussy's images, and no sleeping is more painfully joyous than in Mavis' voice. And the night and day connect at a distance, where dream is enforced and living is dissipated.

And I nonsensed.

Happiness is sinless.

The night becomes the day.