"I want to move like jazz saxophone sounds," she said, looking through the haze of smoke at the trio huddled together on the makeshift stage. It was two in the morning, and only gentle murmurs of hushed conversations broke the mostly-improvised set. "They're notes, but..." she trailed off, chasing some thought or perhaps getting lost in the same one yet again. "No, they're not notes," she began again abruptly. "These are memories of notes, echos. It's as if I've been here before. This time," she said, "and this time, I want to hold onto these memories."