On Gossamer Wings

Tuxedo Junction

I roused to the sound of a clock aboard the train ringing out 8:15 PM. We surely were in the incunabula of London by now. Opening my eyes, I noticed the abundant grasses outside my window had evanesced into cobblestones.

The locomotive soon slowed to a stop. I rose from the seat and opted off the train. I checked for any signs designating directions to the Palladium. Fortunately I noticed one and began the short trek to the theatre.

Approaching the wide French doors that greeted the incoming audiences, my pace accelerated. I desperately wanted a seat in propinquity to the stage.

Hoi polloi were already gathering around the Palladium, and as I neared it, I discovered it increasingly difficult to maneuver my way to the entrance. I was forced to persevere through the throng of people.

At last I came upon the diaphanous doors. I pulled the handle and was welcomed by an atrabiliously sweetly-perfumed breeze, one that strangely reminded me of Shakespeare's "Antony and Cleopatra", when Enobarbus described Cleopatra VII in all her sanctimonious grandeur, slaves at her side fanning her with aromatized papyrus.

The apposite chimerical scene dissolved, and I stepped through the doors. I walked down the rows of balusters and eventually through rows of theatre chairs. I chose the only empty one I could find that lay betwixt the center of the first row.

The mass that had a bailiwick for such functions that had gathered outside the enigmatic Palladium settled into their seats. My head revolved about the vast area, observing the bereft crowd. The lights dimmed quite minimally as an announcer walked onstage. The entire congregation cheered with guffaw incredulously loud.