Vanity. Ares

poetry - the show must prevail.
Chapter 5 — Gordot, A Dash of Brandy & Anais -
La Masquerade Act II
AAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAA
AA
The night did pass and the next day arrived
and again Coctau and the same black officer
escorted me to the van, just as the day before.
Coctau gripped my arm and stuck his nails into
them, whilst we walked and the black officer and
him were having a chat about the economy and
how it was “great” that they had a job. I mused,
that they were just as much prisoners as I, and
perhaps even more so; being that they were
unaware of the invisible key, cell or lock that was
imprisoning them, clear from the cage their trivial
conversation smelt of, I knew they were not as
free as they would think. I spent the van journey
to the court, mostly thinking about meat perhaps
eaten with a little milk, I deliberated. This meat
was imagined to be the good meat and the kind
Martinq would cook, in Marseille, and keep from
me, most of the time. Nocturnal, dream-like, saga,
perdition, were some of the words that then
rained as hard the weather that day. The rain hit
the van and I became aware that I was on my own,
alone in the grand scheme of things. I was
drowned in my mood, and the melody was one I
could fail to escape. Everyone in the court scuttled
into the room; the rain enrapturing its droplets on
the beady faces that looked worried, sombre by
the wetness - one man jostled into the press area
with a flabbergasted wet face looking sullen from
123