Black, red and green have already parted, but the sounds muffle like inside a body of water. There are no Kabuki actors, only dolls. Big shadows cover the stage. Winter days haze, but Tsukine stares at the heroine without blinks, as if in a flutter she could disappear.

How brittle is love, how brittle is art, like a sheet of ice is the human heart. And what about angels?

Biwa strikes a breach, Tsukine blinks.

The heroine leans in, nooses her lover's ear. Her junihitoe sags. What secret does she mumble? Is it a truth so cruel, does he need to know? Plums twirl open. The lover staggers. The poor soul. All those years of nurture and care; she never loved him.

The flowers wilt and leaves wither away, branch remains tainted the boy’s heart at a young age. When the lover is damaged from birth, in what way does he deserve the love of a girl? The twist of fate loves to play tricks. And the lover whines about it. In Tsukine's eyes, there is nothing more pathetic. The dolls are stringed along. A change of scene.

The prince hands him a cup. "It's diluted. Warm yourself." His smile gleams in stage light. The cup steams.

"Jokan?" Tsukine smells the vapor, merely guesses the temperature.

"Did I choose poorly?"

"No, I like it. Thank you, Baolin."

Heated fragrant wine cools on his tongue, he rubs his cheek sheeted with hoar. He chugs the cup, the prince refills it.

As the scene reopens, they continue to whisper in this silent theater.

"What do you see, Baolin?"

The prince does not hawk as much as when Tsukine was on stage, but he still watches with great pretense. Aren't they ill-advised, these lowly humans? 

“It's an attempt to weather heart ailments, an attempt at soothing. It's beautiful how humans instrument art to understand and better themselves. It's so very romantic.” Silk chafes when he exhales. Along the water reflections he leans into his hand, his tender gaze envelops the stage.

Again, Tsukine has failed to peek through the prince's eyes. He does not understand how angels think. How they are, how he is. "I must have expected you to be more cynical."

"Are you disillusioned by love?"

"Love diffuses like heat. You are left alone sooner or later." In the scenes, his eyes only find wetwood faces. Hair ice swarms the blank, it blurs like in a body of water. In dolls one seeks sorrow. Is that what humans have? 

Cords flutter like waves, Tsukine blinks.

A small doll dances under a plume shower that sinks to stage, it is a child who attempts Karyobin, paper wings on its back. White herons fish behind. An inept attempt, a tumble was the lover’s youth. Yet he tries again, he wants to improve, no matter the amount of falls.

The boy has a mother that hurries to his side, nooses him in her arms. That can't be, the boy has no mother. That woman might be ice, she might be as vapid as water. Under her robes brocaded with thorns and branches, she hides heads of young boys, they roll. Is he all alone with her?

His father is off to war. So far away, as if he never existed. Out of touch, consideration, love. His youth was lonely, no wonder he yearned for the heroine who eventually casts him aside like a used doll. Heartbroken, the son wants to join his father, and the woman pleads and cries. But it is futile. The son reassures her, wields his sword into battle.

"Women are capricious, it's adorable." Tsukine chuckles. He sips more wine.

"It may be human. Did you love a woman?"

"Yes, terribly."

A rigid body is dragged back to the loving girl. Fragile movements of grief and her quiet sobs are erased with waves of biwa, the girl contemplates-

The prince rubs Tsukine's knuckles, his hand. Unlike his, it is hot from the wine. Murmurs, music, chants fruit as Tsukine and the prince drag out of the theater.

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