And goodnight to you, good lady. May you wake to a bright and better tomorrow.
It bows. Such is the role it plays.
The Jester. The fool. The harlequin to the Innamorati. Translator of absurdity, the courier of consolation and conveyor of catharsis, who rides upon the east wind and sparkle with dew. It entertains, it’s sorrowful songs dance on your dulcet tongues like dust flung from a butterfly’s wings. Thus it pays tithe for a candle wick.
The feast is finished and the lamps expire. Night descends, and so returns homeward its content patrons. For tomorrow is another show.
Curtain falls. Weeps the harlequin.
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