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Description
It struck softly; as though epiphany itself were unprepared and thus not committed to the impact - which did nothing to reduce the shock.

I was living in a studio with windows that were really mirrors that faced inward only all of the reflective surfaces were melting so that one was shown a bent, macabre version of the world within, which seemed a fitting commentary until the surfaces began to splinter and like a cannon or a child's baseball words came tumbling in with the sour air, the hollering streets and the scrambling masses; words like so many well-mannered gents into the grand opening of an art gallery in which every piece portrayed a terrified child cowering from wolves of a clearly phallic nature.

All at once with the air and the streets and the masses I could see and understood - as though the punchline of "us" had been reached and I were frozen there, in the moment just before laughter, living the lives of every bleeding heart with raised hands nearly compressing in applause; every faceless set of teeth grinning as though in anticipation of some garish feast.

They were perpetually rehearsing actors and actresses in a show with no star, no coherent plot and a director whose diet consisted of coffee and elavils with all of it taking place on an ever-revolving stage, constantly spinning and tilting and shifting out and away so that at any moment only the smallest fraction of the jabbering cabaret were visible.

They were all villains and they all believed they were the hero and every one of them was constantly clambering to the top of the mass of flesh and spouting some oath or epithet or poem and the cacophony was such that none of the actors, nor the director or the audience or even myself could hear the stage supports groaning beneath the weight of the supreme irony of it all.