There is beauty in silence, least of all the possibility of creating worlds that don’t exist, least of all spending time with specters rather than actual human beings. They’re nicer that way. But of course they’re not real. It’s like a child’s tea party. And everyone who’s anyone is in attendance. Mr. Wiggles the lizard. Milford Winchell the moody parakeet. Bob Marley the canary. Desmond. Dame Angie Tinklesteam. And she’s set for a monologue from her 1947 classic, Dancing with Broken Telephones. She’s going to perform it at intermission, right before the Mad Hatter arrives to rearrange the seating assignments. Then afterwards everyone will sit in silence remembering the good times. Only the good times. That’s what silence is for. Idealizing the past. Said no guru ever.


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