AUDIENCE Audience. Champagne bar. Ring of glasses, voices, coins. Trill of telephone. Third call to go to hall. Crushed ticket in the pocket. Around, Unknown faces. Head turns round, Night dream washes out To nothingness... Audience... Specks of sun... Fighting with illness, He woke to weekday silence... "My Dear Friend! Feeling sick, Artist wrote to say His performance was very weak On stage... He did not succeed, Did not convince her... She did not discover One drop of truth On that Sunday... She has left him. Naked walls are what remains. But she was His Audience... Ah, what happens?" Composition Without Number. The score consists of applause. Musical moment form. Hall Of empty chairs, Dust and old style. Artist claps With door Hitting knee. Artist calls That accident His "avant-garde" piece, In its theme. A man comes By chance To the hall... He goes back... Turning... out Into the dark. The door Closes and claps... Squeaking to itself: "One more day of the week..." Clap-clap, Head slap, Clap-trap. "My Dear Friend! Artist is in total despair... His efforts... weren't rewarded by her. Audience found this time Too much truth On stage: "In our life, already, There is too much pain..." She left, being so sure, Saying that she will not come to him Anymore... Even though She was a faithful Audience to him, Before..." Clap-clap, Butt slap, Pole-hole. Ringing of bell Beats his heart. Allegro. Culture and alcohol Are mixed. Contemporary cocktail. Secco. "My Dear Friend! I'm sorry to have imagined you. The artist is lamenting... In the range of mezzo... He is making something That he didn't create... He falls into childishness... And the Audience... She will come back... Singing With the flute of Spring... Hugging, kissing Her Artist After his death..." |