YOU KNOW EXACTLY WHAT I’M TRYING TO SAY

by illimitableoceanofinexplicability

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Gladly, have I, on numerous occasions in the past, relinquished my humble stage to Jack Horrorchild, the well loved and much respected Master of Poetization. He, who with words (magically, some would say) does easily send us soaring above like birds in the blue over towering cloud shrouded mountains and across open prairies limitless in space, and then, yes, then, if he so chooses (for whatever reasons unfathomable to us untrained as we are in his secret arts), with those words of his he sends us tumbling down, and down and down, beneath the ground burried like moles near blind and digging constantly through the dirt unable to detect any colors, but only ever to see light from dark and movement. This time, this very first time, I hesitate, just off the stage, out of the light, behind the curtain (hiding like a frightened child guilty of some wrong and attempting to avoid a whipping¹) nervously rubbing my hands together (and perspiring quite profusely) hoping (at moments perhaps even praying) for an answer to a question never before would I imagine to ask, “Should the show go on”?

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Yes. Yes, it should go on, and angry am I at myself for even thinking the thought that it should not. What madness would be required to descend upon one from who knows where that may excuse such foolishness I cannot say, and hope no one else dares either. Why would they? I wonder myself but soon realize it is the same sickness I suffered from and stop myself from any further inquiry.

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okay

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¹For more on harrowing childhood experiences see here: The Stink Milk Horror

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