The dreams had returned, again, and no amount of coffee and cigarettes could keep their influence at bay.
The ennui was crushing at times, and even talking with an outrageous French accent would not help.
He thought of his days in the theatre. Oh, the crazy antics they’d get up to behind the proscenium. His torrid affair with the La Belle Cochon. All of the strange creatures that inhabited his world back then seemed like a forgotten summer’s holiday: it was a feeling. The intimation of sunlight glinting off his green skin”¦ pretty girls in crinoline ”¦ absinthe parties under the panoply of the Milky Way. And so many more wisps that could be regrets if he could only recall what they were.
He was hollow. A shell. A cipher and an entertainer. These things he could be certain of, but nothing else.
Except that he always smelled of bacon.