SCP-████ Addendum: Partial list of recovered documents from Incident-████/4. Documents constitute a correspondence between PoI-4667 and PoI-4668, both prominent anartists potentially involved in the creation of SCP-████. See Document-████ for more information.

Abel
I thought you had lost your touch. I thought when I went to see "This Little Sadness in Life" that I would see something mainstream and conforming to typical modern dance notions, but my God have you done it again. The way you had your dancers move against that carpet wall was a revelation, my friend! That young man (Ira, I believe?), where did you say he trained again? Switzerland?
The audience was simply spellbound by the feats of strength you were able to portray. I was glad to see the final performance.
Yours, Andre.

Dear Andre.
I am humbled to hear you caught the final show. I almost thought you weren't coming. I know things have been difficult between us, and I wanted to say that I have improved since Mumbai. Really, both artistically and emotionally. I was an idiot, then.
I've been trying to channel my anger into the choreography. To do something useful with it. But the truth is what happened was simply so outrageous that to convey these feelings we had to an audience is…difficult, to say the least. Every time I try to create a combination, they barely stir. They might privately rage a little, but there is nothing like the feelings I want to inspire.
I've invited Suzette over. Probably as soon as I finish writing this, she'll have arrived. We're going to try something new with the anger combination. I've removed all the fragile furniture from the studio now.
Call me at ███-████, if you need to talk. Ask the operator to call long distance.
Sincerely
Abel.

Abel
I resent the fact you need to convey my anger. Not everything in your life needs to be experienced by an audience. What we had was special, I grant that. But it wasn't working. Both you and I recognized our driving apart. I wanted to take things further, and you desperately needed to stay behind. You obviously still aren't ready to commit.
If you had gone with me, listened to me instead of blowing on past like a bull, perhaps you wouldn't have such difficulty with your choreography. Perhaps there would be no need to make a crowd rage and tear each other to pieces. God, do you even know how selfish that sounds, Abel? I counted 70 people at the performance, and that's seventy people who would know the rage of a spouse in fury. And it would kill them.
I'm sorry I didn't call, my friend. I cut the phone cord a hour ago. Don't bother trying. Glad to hear Suzette's still your dance partner.
Yours, Andre.

Dear Andre.
I am so sorry I strayed. I understand you're still upset. But listen, you've got someone new. You don't need to carry the torch for what we had. I should be the one who is carrying the torch. I should be feeling regret.
Maybe you were right. Maybe the future is to go beyond modern dance. To create steps and movements that echo beyond pure dance and into some higher artistic medium. Maybe I can fill minds then. I've had difficult even making an audience see a storm at sea.
I am coming to think the reason I cannot convey the anger in this combination, is because I feel none. Deep inside myself I do not feel regret for my actions those weeks. At that point in our relationship I no longer felt an equal to you. Artistically we began to conflict, physically nothing felt exciting, emotionally you were too absorbed in yourself. Even now, you insist I am making my piece about you! In every way you could not satisfy me. Sorry if this sounds maudlin or trite, but it's true.
And it fucking pains me that you were oblivious until the last minute. I admit my regrets on that, at least.
Sincerely
Abel

Abel
Fuck you. You continue to disappoint, even to this day. I put aside my so called "self-absorption" to actually reach out to the man who broke my heart and say that he did something good. This despite the fact that he is still stuck in the old ways, limping his company along without me. Yeah, no shit that you cannot influence people anymore. All you do is put on a pretty show.
Who are you, Abel? You constantly live behind a mask. Your dancers don't see who you really are. Your family never saw who you really are. I never saw who you really are. I lived with you, I cooked for you, I had sex with you, I loved you for nine years. You were always so charming, you never showed the hole beneath.
All those weeks you were with David, all those weeks lying to me and evading me. You actually think I was ignorant? You were the one dodging me every day, making up stories about late night choreography. What was I supposed to do?
Who do you think you are? Literally all you know how to do is put on a pretty show, the only emotion you can instill in a crowd is awe. Awe isn't good enough anymore, Abel. Not when the painters can melt skulls and the sculptors can turn flesh into bone. Not when the young people so quickly consume the old like us. Not when the world of anart doesn't care about dance. We need to be better. A flick of the heel, a graceful roll, the right combination of jumps and leaps, they can influence the minds of people in ways nothing else can. We can instill whatever we want if we try. Pure anger, the sight of a summer day with a lover, intense sadness.
It's not that hard. You did it with no problem.
You want to let the world feel my rage? To dance the pain into everyone's mind? So be it.
Andre