Of a Commentable Nature

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The lights glared fiercely blinding those on the stage. It was a regular night for the small company and they performed neither particularly well nor particularly bad, nothing of a commentable nature. The Tragedian (as he was known to all, for he was with the company since its inception) was effusive as always and his sonorous voice filled the dressing rooms. Long past his acme the old man still clung with a fidelity, unlike that of a dog, to his post, and with the ardor that could and would not be mustered by any of the younger actors and actresses. Sadly, at this point his sporadic bits of good acting had fallen into dissolution and age had crept slowly into his eyes. Enamored though he was with his field he was an encumbrance and obsolete. The manager, who normally was a portly man with twinkling eyes, came in. His eyes were no longer twinkling. The manger beckoned for the grayed Tragedian to come aside for a moment. The words that come from his mouth did not register in the mind of the Tragedian. Traversing the rickety, makeshift dressing rooms and low hanging gaudy lights to get to the back exit, he prostrated himself on the grimy pavement and tears prevailed as his paraphernalia clattered onto the unforgiving ground. Once an exalted Tragedian now just The Tragedian, an old dog that never learned a new trick. He picked himself up and brushed off the mud from his coat and walked. With his imperative clear he walked towards the bridge and peer down into the murky abyss. It was a moonless night and nothing of a commentable nature occurred.





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