It's hard to say what is worse--the rats, the overcrowding or the plague. Death has pitched his tent--but not at my door. Not yet. If-- ever.
As of late, cruel disease has gifted my writing with powerful imagery:
Which I must needs call mine: thou art a boil,
A plague-sore, an embossed carbuncle,
In my corrupted blood.
(2.4.242), Lear, describing his daughter, Goneril
Ironically, the theatre remains open. Who knows for how long... For now, I must leave that kettle of fish be, and Live while I can. Othello has been well received. Much to my surprise. I wasn't too sure if the audience would take to the Moor as a tragic hero. It's a good thing they have. Money is tight. Anne is always wanting more ... it's this or go home. Perish the thought.
As of late, cruel disease has gifted my writing with powerful imagery:
Which I must needs call mine: thou art a boil,
A plague-sore, an embossed carbuncle,
In my corrupted blood.
(2.4.242), Lear, describing his daughter, Goneril
Ironically, the theatre remains open. Who knows for how long... For now, I must leave that kettle of fish be, and Live while I can. Othello has been well received. Much to my surprise. I wasn't too sure if the audience would take to the Moor as a tragic hero. It's a good thing they have. Money is tight. Anne is always wanting more ... it's this or go home. Perish the thought.
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