((This page under construction, more will come soon.))
*As you leaf through the ageing text you notice in the back of the book a dozen or so loose pages. You turn to the last page where the unfastened sheets lay against the back cover of the book, tied together with a black tattered ribbon. These pages have been written with much haste and are sloppier then the previous writings that you have seen. These loose writings are all musical compositions. Each one is longer than the next. Most of the pieces are untitled and almost all of them have no lyrics. It is obvious that the second and third in the list have lyrics but the majority of the words have been crossed out.
As you skim over the works you notice that indeed all of her manuscripts are, as she has stated before full of sadness. The works have been composed for the guitar, however it is evident that they are adaptable to other instruments. There are scores of melodical scales, which increase in intensity. Almost all of the chords are minor. The arpegiation in the solos is phenomenal and each song, in its first stage of composition is nearly perfect.
The first composition is the shortest but it is as of yet unfinished.
The seccond piece reads as follows:*
I am alone
Locked in my memories
There is nowhere left for me to hide
But I am not real
I have made all I am with lies
Why does it seem that only you are real?
*The rest of the words can not be made out, large lines of blue ink run haphazardly through the rest of the final lyrics. The music to the song is passionate and desperate. It seems to be calling out to you, almost pleading with you.*
*The next is just a simple song. As you read it you can imagine her sitting alone in a smoky bar performing. There are four chords that make up the majority of the piece. Towards the end however, when the lyrics trail off, there comes a graceful fire and vitality into the song. The solo is short but highly ornate and filled with intricate finger picking.
The legible words read as such:*
I keep breaking all the promises
that I keep making to myself
you would think by now that I would be over this
instead I am feeling sorry for myself
So why does everything seem so desperate now?
I should be feeling so alive
but it feels like somethings missing
somethings wrong somehow.
*The third work that you look at is also unfinished. This piece, unusual as it is, contains only lyrics.*
Everywhere I go I see your face.
Every sound I hear is the sound of your voice.
Why are you haunting me?
Why can't I let you go?
...
*You decide to leave the rest of the works for a later time. Reading them is just not as good as hearing them. Besides, it would be to easy now for someone to notice you looking at this book and you would rather Vitriol not know that you were reading her most intimate of documents. You tie the black ribbon around the loose pages and you put the book back in Dezorian’s saddlebag where you found it.*
