It was the crazy kind of life he had selected for himself. It was the life that pretended that there was a stage and that there would be later broadcasts of the performance. He somehow expected roses in the end, thrown at him, as the curtain rose again and again.
Had he only known that his was the early morning slot in a tiny theater and that the audience were schoolclasses of bored boys armed not with roses but with rotten fruit.
Hmm, lost this illustrator file. He now only exists as a gif. How appropriate. : |