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I never appreciated the Hall of Obscure Dignitaries until the end of the world.

Very often now, I find myself sitting here in the front row of plush theatre seating, having hand cranked just enough low-crackling voltage to provide a banal show featuring animatronic orators speaking very slowly about the modern definitions of liberty.

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The same show that used to make me fall asleep as a kid still almost does sometimes, like a long-forgotten lullaby.   Mostly I don’t even hear the words though, anymore.

 

I intentionally tune them out, choosing to remember instead a heartbreaking song:  (♪ Currently playing ♪: O Mia Babbino Caro, performed by Maria Callas and written by Giacomo Puccini…)

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Don’t think I’m missing much.         The words of the show aren’t applicable anymore.

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I’m just here for the beautiful backdrop: a room full of pretend people.

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It’s the only time I’d risk having my back to a door.

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I wear 3-D shades and wish for popcorn.

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I don’t really know why I’m here.

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I don’t know why I’m weeping. 

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