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Lucy Argues with Wally over making up Plays on Symptoms of Idiomatic Sublimation, Heavy Froth, Torch, and Lure for a Cure. 

Am ordering books on Stage Managment and and a thesaurus for theatre on Actions.

But thoughts themselves come in drunken waves, Mur and Slur, Lucy thinks sure it looks like Love, love isnt a high bar, its a relay, really means it.

Lucy says, sweet as she can, I am a symptom of emptiness. Opening into a sea of unsettling gusts that blow the

Next fucking door. The arguments have started. Between the floorboards and the lights. I am laying on the floorboards listening for your approach. Arms behind my head. Dreaming of physical aspects of stage as a present tense empty of time as of yet waiting for its players to awaken into presence, meanwhile they are dust, and curiosity as temptation, that is a fiction gravid with antimatter. 

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