now Paris.
All depends on the Helen, I suppose.
Cassandra carries her torch,
waving madly toward the future.
None heed her.
I carried my torch as well.
This stage
walked before,
sandal strap slipping
awkwardly down my leg.
I thought it a play of single act,
never accounting for encore or
command performance.
Must a thousand
ships be launched?
Deus ex machina, anyone?
I have forgotten my lines.
