Your soirees were indulgent, and for the love of your art you engaged all. Yet it was that desire for 'The One' that would claim your once auspicious life.
Now your mother's face contorted from grief, mourns. Her hand clenched in mine, all we can do is bear witness to your final state of mind: A canvas of fractured white.
The paint has dried. Your soiree is over. I wonder if it was worth it all.