Article: 178926 of talk.bizarre From: page@clydesdale.cs.odu.edu (d.) Newsgroups: talk.bizarre Subject: minstrel ends Date: 1 Dec 1994 21:55:47 GMT Organization: Old Dominion University CS Dept. Lines: 43 Message-ID: <3blgp3$im9@xanth.cs.odu.edu> Status: O Then the day came that I didn't have any more songs to sing. The children looked at me sadly and patted me on the knees and back, whispering soft words through wet lips. Tears spilt down silently onto my mandolin as I sat very still, not feeling the comfort they tried to give me. I stood and walked off. Not one of them called for me to come back. I walked straight through the cobbled city streets, lost in my own emotions. A young lady coming from a brightly-painted wooden shop cursed at me vaguely as I passed by, a city guard stalked beside me for a while. A merchant's cart nearly ran me down. I didn't care. Eventually I found myself in the bazaar where the people were thick and milling. I pushed my way through the outer crowd but then found myself trapped in the throng, unable to go forward anymore. I stood and stepped slowly, letting the people carry me along. The crowd broke for a single moment to afford me a view of a beautiful woman in green silks. I didn't have a song for her, I turned my head away in shame. The bodies pressed up against me, shoving and pushing without reason. All these people, too mindful of where they're going instead of where they are. If they only stopped for a moment and cast their eyes down to where they were. We all look too far ahead. Yes, yes we do. The realization felt like crescendo played on celestial strings. My knife felt cold and sharp. I didn't stop to think; I just plunged it into one eye and then the other. Someone screamed somewhere, a beautiful alto. I wonder where my mandolin is. They tell me I'm mad, but I've songs for the children again. And I never look farther ahead of me than my own feet. d. -- Truth, tears and tirades. page@cs.odu.edu