Hidden in the shadow beneath the black wooden box, she sits with her knees pulled to her chest, trembling. It is a feverish chill, and fearful.

(To perform is to always be at your best)

Their voices keep vying for her time in circles above her head. Ever so cleverly, they are taunting, snickering, waiting like hawks for her to break. Their smiles are deliciously angelic.

(To always be at your best is a lonely pursuit)

Angled correctly, the wooden box is beautifully curvacious. It looks something like a coffin.