Grey Suit Black Tie

There is a stage and I am setting it up for you.

Wooden floorboards, chipped and split down panels. Shadow alley, chopped lights but nothing in the wings. Its all from a florescent choke or stumble, a slash across your wrist and the black blood seeping.  It puddles of the floor and there’s a reflection. No creaks, just the tap in the nibble across that rides through the hall over two hundred and ninety chairs. Four prints from two ushers, ghouls turning in there stances with strained necks who listened through big block waves, cold handles chilled by the lobby. Vacuum stained, rugged isles close in on each other, sea shell curving and fading in flicking bulbs that line the rows. There’s your five ft drop off. No real orchestra pit. The notes get played in the corners and it is hoped all noise matches in the middle. There is no real place to set your gaze, not without anything filling up the stage. Now, we count out to eleven.