I pull the strings, they all sound the same.
For seven or so minutes, I pull the strings of my newly acquired bass guitar.
The differences in the frequency of each pull seem so small, it makes me wonder how the magicians of the stage are able to produce such sounds.
The extent of my patience is reached.
The guitar breaks into pieces as I bludgeon it against the floor.
“Master!”, I call out.
Master does not answer.
Master is dead; my butler is dead.
I swallow the memory of last week and weep my eighth teardrop.