"She sits at her piano, a vast and meticulously notated score spread out before her. Her flickering eyes sweep softly across the pages; her slightly trembling fingers play the opening sonorities at a slow and contemplative pace. I am sitting next to her, listening intently, following her eyes and the subtle shifts in her body as she paces through this rich and haunting music. I am struggling to hear her sounds with the ears of a trauma survivor, to glean within their sleek vibrations the trove of terrifying secrets I know lay within. But she quickly trails off, stares into space, and keeps her fingers pressed against the keys, long after the sounds have dissolved into the white noise of a sleepy Brooklyn afternoon."

                                        "You're overreacting." "Fuck you."