A young woman is on stage, microphone in hand. It is long and thin like a cigarette. The piano resolves into repeating sequence of chords. None of the other instruments find rest in such pleasant shade. They carry on, flutters and sparks, phrases elongated into scenes from a moving train, they produce sounds to which most would say they do not belong but were capable of the whole time.
The girl sings;
Since I caught your eye in the glass
Fading with the curtained sun
And waiting for you to look back
My heart ran like a rabbit
Smiling when I opened a door...