Franz: Dearest, Bettina, you surprise me. Haven’t I always been faithful to measure?
Jakob: I assure you he has, Bettina. Only yesterday he made a precise graph of my body.
Eva: The issue is beyond measure.
Franz: I defend my design. It’s evolving. All art evolves. It dances to a forward music. Or blood and bone turn to stone. You see a mote in my eye, Bettina? There’s a prison in yours made of the bars of Mozart.