we're writing a play together and it feels easier than it should - somehow, words drip from our mouths onto paper and emotions float off the story into the now. theatre is at once exhilarating and devastating, lending a time-bound escape from reality which we made into art because of its pervasive beauty and endless capacity for depravity. line after line of nuanced characterisation - we analyse and predict authentic reactions "what would we know?" i want to scream "about the verisimilitude of interactions?" the plot is about loss and light and love; which is to say it is also about you and me but it is filled with honesty and resolutions and therefore it is nothing like our story. the irony would amuse me if it didn't cripple my fragile stability. we sit and we write our expansive play and our scenes and our speeches; and all the while i am thinking about the saga of things i cannot say.
irony
