A wall halved by a heap of volumes and a line of instruments, all for public use; pinned to a dark room flanking the bar. It is our existence, what we live for: words and melodies: our umbilical cord connecting us to something greater, nourishing our spirits, our souls. To the left, a piano, a PA, a desolate microphone, all patiently waiting to be acknowledged, to be needed. Empty, aged leather seats of a hemorrhaged cerise create a skeleton, framing the end opposite the stage in the narrow accommodation. A few stools peppering the chamber, all of which were quickly occupied so as to prevent the discomfort of situating next to a stranger on a crimson chaise; to avoid enduring an accidental slight touch of another, or another awkward and mind-numbing socially accepted conversation—small talk. No, each stool was gratefully seized while two loveseats, a rib on each side of the skeleton, each carried a single being, and a bench, the spine, was left alone behind the others; inaccessible without having to sustain speech. This was a space for pariahs to occupy and lose themselves amongst other social misfits.who either believed they could make a change or were better than the rest. But, much to their dismay, they were not so unlike their counterparts chirping away at the bar about the day’s activities, quaffing vast amounts of liquor to make up for what they lost or will never have.