He takes his last breath for the night. The music from exhaust engines tire themselves out. Inside, petty advisors punch their timesheets, setting aside solicitations for flowcharts and returning to their ever shrinking dormitories.
Good. Now we can begin, the sugarplums declare. (or are they centrefolds?)
It begins and ends like every other cycle, not that consistency matters at all. Swivel, sway and trot, or so is often thought. Troops of the troupe clean up nicely without noise, nor is assembly required. Soon enough, the stage is ready.
A very handsome entity (perhaps) pirouettes. No matter if the platform dissolves, for the performer had rehearsed it between routines. Now how about the audience? Has the lone ticket been sold? And the theatre, well-unlit?
Yes. The prelude—or truth be told—distraction bows itself out. Stagehands, raise them curtains up!
Eyes have no interest in foreplay. What is in play—skydiving? Wakeboarding? Nudes to the beholder? —can only be temporary. No actor overstays their place. Always, an unannounced but not unexplainable cameo, a kindred spirit seeking presence in the now, only serves a sense of urgency, of misplaced longing.