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The roar of applause hits her ears. One more night, one more performance.
A haze of smoke crowded around her, as if as eager to touch her as the adoring fans on the other side of the door.
The life she led grew tiresome, as if she was merely singing as a chore.
She didn't know when all of the adventures, the people, the music- had all began to bleed together.
As if her life had simply become water colors on canvas.
She lit the waiting cigarette on the table, and took a drag, exhaling the smoke.
Silent music filled the room, and she began to sway. Her arms lifted to her sides, and she danced.
She didn't know how much time she had spent dancing to the music running through her head. There was nothing more alluring to her than the silence of her dressing room, and the music of the night.
The most magical part, however, was that the dance was only for her. Down to the small sway of her hips to the movement of her lips, the dance was for her eyes only.
It was a performance in name only.
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