I decided to write a short story. There was an idea I’d had in England before I’d left. Something about a small theater at the end of a pier. Stage magic as the rain came down. An audience who couldn’t tell the difference between magic and illusion, and to whom it would make no difference if every illusion was real.
Neil Gaiman, Smoke and Mirrors
It began as a thought of something you said last time you were in town, and kind of evolved into a letter to you. It’s authored by me, so of course half doesn’t make any damn sense, half is me rambling on, and in between are snide comical statements that you would read with the precise inflection I wrote them with. Maybe I’ll send it. Maybe.
My sister wanted to take a look at my annotated Death of a Salesman, so I blew the dust off my box of writings and text from senior year and came across this. Damn. A lot of memories. All the world’s a stage Mr Johnson.
Just got cast in Waiting for Godot. I play a slave named Lucky with no lines other than a massive three page soliloquy of lengthy verbal consciousness. Lets do this.