A million people stare at you
As you stand naked, bathed in light, surrounded by darkness
Move, they shout, dance, sing, laugh, cry
Well not actually a million...
More like twenty
And you're not actually naked
Although the boxers are feeling awfully small just now
And they aren't shouting. Or even talking.
The silence seems somehow worse though.
They want you to create mist
Not with a fog machine or even a paintbrush
But with yourself.
How do you do that?! What does that mean?
But you try anyway.
Your world narrows to the three walls,
Stained with the writing of years past
They bear messages barely worth reading
The view is stunning: whitewashed wall
And aged carpet, never cleaned.
You ask why you're sitting here, now?
No answer appears.