There's a party downstairs. There are colorful balloons, and the child is playing the piano for them. Everyone is happy and smiling, running into each other's arms. I am upstairs; I am hateful and wrathful. This room of living dolls and quiet waxen ballerinas is not my prison, I am the prison. It is my estate, and I sit alone speaking an unknown language, deliciously, infinitely, and spitefully, because of a cruel promise long ago. I do not have happiness, and my bones are made of velvet, and I have an avalanche of remorse. It will end soon; some things you cannot undo.