Someone screamed in the auditorium. But no one looked uncomfortable. Someone had obviously been killed, as though a scalpel had carefully stolen his heart -- heartless? Considering the kinds we were, what perhaps could be more natural than death while watching theatre. There was even wine being served from floating trays, most faces were veiled with shadows and I felt her soul slipping into me so easily, why? The music played more loudly, a few more screams were heard but seemed so distant. There were even shadows that danced on the walls and a thousand whispers were shared, and then passed around like cigarettes.
The programme couldn't have ended; Margarita was feeling a bit cheated as she cleared her throat and then her clothes to go back to Woland and the moon.
The two sisters walked in, they were all a bit surprised to see them at first. Were they relieved? They hadn't been to the Fisherman's Bait for ages; the tavern was now filled with a plague and the lust that, like, drained from sewage of brothels. A thousand skeletons walked with their eyes oozing as jellies serving the cocktails of snake venom and absinthe, with their tears to flavour or savour and burnt with fire.
Someone was clapping, while shaking his mighty head as though in disapproval. There was an orchestra that came from halls of forgotten halls. There was a room where the jokers crashed on the piano. What a sound it made. Nothing could make sense, could this? They asked themselves without talking. Now, the dream passed by like the night did to an early morning.
There was despair but in the child who wore no feet. There were birds that picked his thoughts all day. While Sisyphus looked up again and said, could this really be the end? Stop cheatin the line that weren’t meant to be his, says the dying professor still the stupid cribber he had always been. Could it really be, while nothing mattered to the circle of witches on the shores? The spells and the visits to the underwold – the locks of Goldie, and the winter madness of the forests of No Return – isn’t it clear now, or better? The armies and their broken vows now lost to the prayers of those who cannot sleep but with nervous laughter. The drunken talk of the dormouse. Alice, sweet as she will always be, lost in her world again, where could she now bloody go?
The Cheshire Cat grins with those fancy whims, she’s famous but can she be found? Could it really be that they killed Santiago Nassar, or was it one of those fantasies that you read at night and slept with the beauty of imagination and their kinds. The rosebud, who said that? Was it Jimmy Porter? Or an angry twit that blew his mind in a car, while the English won the war?
Could this really end? And end in this fashion, while the princess slept on those ferns. The sound of drums beating, as she's being called in the court to be stripped in front of the world – her story, who will tell it? Whose right is it, she asks? Who am I? The Gods are silent. Forget that Zeus now fell asleep while his world began to tremor with the blood that was swum by heroic beauty in Troy.
One more second and Faustus would rise, and so with the thousand mysteries along with him to plunder his broken pride. The harlots on the streets, could they ever have found their Romeo? Or only after death, you sneer in your broken twisted little mind.This song was poisoned; it never falls short says Rumpelstilskin. There is great music in the wrong, after all his princess still weaves gold. Rubbish the fear and die in its heat. The dogs have been bitten by a violent rage. They will rape the virgin cats, and would it be a pretty site? That heroin is beautiful in your eyes. I’d die like Virginia, except I ain’t sinking.