There’s one coming who frightens the day lights out of those who wait for her. There’s no saying she’ll sing. No saying she’ll stay. All it takes is one imperfection, one false note in the way she’s received, for her to turn her back upon them. They make her a special stage because she’ll not sit where another has danced. She needs the right amount of flowers and fragrance, just enough to put her in the mood. They wait, daring to hope for the rapture of her music, as unsure, as the rain that has been predicted by the local weatherman. They wait, for perfection, in an imperfect world.