sifting through old clothes, i enter a museum of self. costumes of my past hung up on display. as i touch every fabric, iām reminded of each story: the character, the cast, the script, the stage. it is the wardrobe of a washed up actor who was ever yearning for the applause of her audience and the praise of her critics. all those years she wasted losing herself in roles, in the demands of characters, now collecting dust within a dark closet.