But nothing could set it all right....
The arrogance. The ....
Boredom.
Sigh...
Would it be better to write letters to strangers? Alone in my isolation. Ahh, the exquisite delicious torture... Such a lovely thought. Missives from the depths of human isolation.
Feh.
It's nothing more than pining, longing, lusting, losing.
I wish it was something more than that. Something more significant.
Something I could share.
I could share it, you know.
Would you like me to share it? Share in the slight twitch? The rather upsetting thing that happened to me that night so so long ago?
Would you like me to bare my soul here to you?
Or would you rather I a movie star, or perhaps a rock and roll singer. Naah.
It was nothing so fetching.
I became an invalid for a while, soaking up all the sympathy I could in a small hospital on the outskirts of Paris.
And then....
I met Lorraine.
Except that wasn't really her name.
She told me her name was Lorraine, because I was eating quiche that day.
Quiche Lorraine. A song. A woman. And what a beautiful woman.
There I was, lying in my bed, alone in Paris. Injured and bleeding, and along came Lorraine.
The beautiful woman in white. Not a nurse. No, a doctor, a physician. A healer.
She touched me and I moved. I had to move, she was holding a needle.
I have a thing about needles.
I imagine them penetrating my skin, going through each and every layer of epidermis. The spear digging into my muscles until finally the plunger is pressed and the medicine driven home.
But I don't want to bore you with medical details either.
You don't like it when I complain, do you?
You, the few who stand in the cold and watch...
You'd rather I tell the jokes. You'd like to laugh, wouldn't you?
But we've been through that all before.
Before I became a mime, I was a politician.
I ran for office in a small state.
Always trying to please the crowd.
Always.