Interlude
Between scenes, the orchestra rests its bows. The audience has wandered backstage and discovered a bathhouse made of meringue. Somewhere in the wings, a putto raises one finger to its lips and says nothing.
The masks do not require you to choose. The columns do not require you to stand. The bubbles, having no agenda, drift sideways through the fluting and out into the margins. This is the intermission — perpetual, voluntary, lit by stage gels the color of butter.
Read slowly. Or do not read. The sentences will still be here when you turn the page.