He stands on the stage with muscles tensed and mind relaxed. His ability to perceive anything at once is employed. And there are twins in the hall, a frog in the toilet, and nowhere (out of sight) is the aphrodisiac named Lenny. A common misconception is the conception of any order at all, and everything you want to exist now, or ever existed, a priori: this is the meat-muscle, the excreting weener, of Cain.
"Nowhere, man," states the deaf mute with essence, "must have a musk, a muse." An Algonquin replied, "Stay away from that horrifying ontology."
The man on the stage is at the same time becoming less inquisitive, more unconcerned and fallow, and now he watches their amusement from off-stage!
Now, those poor, poor people on the balcony--watching him, recording every minute--they do not cow him, for he watches them as an aside only, for the figure on the stage rises, mimicking an immense marble statue. His spine stretches, as the calls of his own voice call out, in his own voice emit, for the figure on the stage, especially when he calls, little or no recognition. The only voice, obviously, is this unrecognizable, willful voice that once belonged to him. Although it cannot be, it can. Although it is not possible (that it is not), it is. His personal translation beckons concern.
With all his initial reactions lost, no longer won, no longer controlled, he is, by those very two filters, totally unmediated. But steadfast guile and limitless misery become his (one-two) weapons. The elations, employed at last year's performance, are absent. Crying, he becomes, just as defeated as a whim. But his legs move around, and he jives and jives and jives, like a crazy set of legs, as if almost no technique is being spared. Tonight. Tonight he is earning his pay. Pray. Prey. Tonight! But only a willful moneymaker, a master of his control, in this reality, earns him his pay.
"Sing! Sing! Sing! Sing! For I'm praying you!" screams an old man in the orchestra pit, "For I'm paying you with my best! Tonight! In all ways, I am yours!"
The dancing marble man looks up. He looks at the world. And from the smoke, a seed believes its lofty purpose lost, in a mournful message, in a reluctant admission to that unforeseen realm, of communiqué.
