futurebird's Diaryland Diary ----------------------------------------------------------------------------------------- There will be no escape from the comedy. I keep trying to buck up my head. Say: �I�m not such a bad person� (I don�t believe myself for a minute.) I�m terrible. If anyone catches on they�ll ask to have me shot. That wouldn�t be so bad I guess. Might hurt though. . . . every leaf that falls makes a little sound. Tiny sounds. Tiny deaths . . . . Okay. I�ll take off the black turtleneck now. Ahh! Better. Just reblocked a scene in the play. I�m cracking my knuckles. Ready to direct. Wiggling my fingers. Just wait till they see what I�ve done! There will be no escape from the comedy. They will be cornered by it in a dark alleyway, confronted by its googly eyes and its waggling tongue. Oh no! Tha' horra'! Then they have to laugh and be as sorry latter as I am all the time. The grimmest men make you laugh at the pain and hate it all the same. Ol' Sammy Beckett is the king of grim. This play is not acted, it�s inflicted. And, oh god, with any luck, we all be diseased! 15:03:38 - 2001-01-20 ----------------------------------------------------------------------------------------- |
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