It’s late. It’s just us alone in heaps at center stage among the programs and bouquets crushed on the floor. But we stay; we’ll frolic in the simulated snow and drown the memories of the show that still remain.These games of dress-up that consume us utterly. Oh, the pageantry, the empty seats, the lights. And, hey…will we be haunted by indifference and regret; the incalculable debt we’ll be stuck with? We try for something something lasting between the rentals and reviews.Oh that was such inspired casting. They do invigorate the room. And this alcoholic haze will ultimately fade, but what’s left, but what’s left…? And then one errant strand of hair slips from your braid, and it shivers with the cadence of your breath. You stretch; you’re sprawled out like a half-packed parachute, and every universal truth reveals itself. Chorus. These adrenalinic ghosts still linger in their hosts. That’s what’s left. That’s what’s left.
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