The Dead End Waltz feat. CONSTANCE DIAZ & NEIL WEST as Connie & "NEEDLES"
It is no more pleasant to stand in the green room a second time than it was the first, to be pulled and pushed and manipulated into another costume far more decadent than the last. A gown of brown and fawn, with delicate detailing and layers of fabric that hang both light and heavy around her legs. An intricate Venetian mask affixed to her face, covering half of her skull entirely whilst letting her hair fall in twisting waves toward her shoulder and dark eyes peer past gold outlines.
Muzzled, but not blinded. She can say nothing to the ally being re-dressed into a dress-up doll interpretation of another, grey and blacks and reds and a mask of his own, but she can watch.
The stage is dark. Illusory stars hover as pinpricks of white in the black, but they do not illuminate the space around them. One moment stood in the inky emptiness, the next flashbanged as a spotlight singles CT out like the sights of a rifle and she is all, at once, alone. A single point of light in empty space, isolated and at rest. Silence and stillness, stretching on.
Until in twisting, fluid motion she is swirling across the stage in a cyclone of skirts, graceful arms and elegant footwork to the sound of the orchestra swelling up from the pit below. Towards— what? No one watching knows, not yet.
Take Your Face [for Neil]
feat. CONSTANCE DIAZ & NEIL WEST
as
Connie & "NEEDLES"
It is no more pleasant to stand in the green room a second time than it was the first, to be pulled and pushed and manipulated into another costume far more decadent than the last. A gown of brown and fawn, with delicate detailing and layers of fabric that hang both light and heavy around her legs. An intricate Venetian mask affixed to her face, covering half of her skull entirely whilst letting her hair fall in twisting waves toward her shoulder and dark eyes peer past gold outlines.
Muzzled, but not blinded. She can say nothing to the ally being re-dressed into a dress-up doll interpretation of another, grey and blacks and reds and a mask of his own, but she can watch.
The stage is dark. Illusory stars hover as pinpricks of white in the black, but they do not illuminate the space around them. One moment stood in the inky emptiness, the next flashbanged as a spotlight singles CT out like the sights of a rifle and she is all, at once, alone. A single point of light in empty space, isolated and at rest. Silence and stillness, stretching on.
Until in twisting, fluid motion she is swirling across the stage in a cyclone of skirts, graceful arms and elegant footwork to the sound of the orchestra swelling up from the pit below. Towards— what? No one watching knows, not yet.
But she does. She knows.
She is seeking him.