Tuesday, July 28, 2009


A man sits down at a desk, the chair legs whining across the old wooden floor
He lays down a single sheet of paper and a pen
For a while, he stares at the paper, and then his hands, and then again at the paper
He begins to write
His writing is long and sad, elegant in its melancholy,
The words spill on to the pages like tears, he writes

In the audience, no one talks, all eyes are on him,
In his boxer shorts, a t-shirt, an old button up

Fake sunlight pours through a fake window into his fake room
The stage is the only place alive in that moment, all eyes, all souls existing for his story

He finishes, he leaves the paper, he walks out the door

The audience is alone

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