(a sigh for the ceiling; stopped by heavy grains and shingles)

That's how this play works, I guess. One thing mends, I hit my cue and then I miss the next one. (sits down, mid-dance) A step, a trip and slip and I no longer need that delusionory element to speak the audience. I never did. I wonder that eyes watch me here blankly. I wonder that they compliment the step and refuse to dance themselves. My delusionory element is the intricacy that I invest in those. This pulse is all too constant to overlook the possibility of the cold star, a dark lighthouse.

Something calls to me, my love. You did, yes and our dance will forever remain in tempo, but these curtains are wearing me down, grinding with the push and pull of machinery long rusted, neglected and weather-worn. (a shift of skirts over sore feet) Even the tides cannot soothe me here. The breeze through the back window is the only force left not strong enough to break down the intensity I pride.

The lights are harsh tonight. Core shifting, changing and this fuse of my eyes and this city burns heavier and heavier. Eventually only the pressure of stillness will hold my quiet thoughts. I fear the retreat, the cold pressure that allows for some eternal distance from my center. (R=2GM/c^2) I need a more familiar place to restablalize this fire, a more familiar face and a rooftop where the stars can watch over me.