Although Liverpool flourishes with life, it is a city of isolation. Although the streets absorb the ambience, the people who march them are lonely. Eleanor Rigby kneels at the doors of the church, her face filled with admiration as she clenches the rose petals left wilted from a wedding that morning. An unwelcome tear escapes her eye and trickles down her wrinkled cheek, before it is captured and disguised by her attentive hand. Her wistful face is adorned with makeup, her delicate eyes a reflection of the solitary soul that lies beneath her veil.
The laughs of the beloved guests flood her covetous ears, meanwhile from behind the altar, the trifling priest exhorts the congregation to have courage and speak the truth. Amongst the church the
