excerpts

The ventilation system was old, and due to ill-repair, had yet to turn on that night, subtly pushing the crowd into a state of restlessness as the performance dragged on. A lady on stage, mid-way through what should have been a few rhetorical questions segueing into a comedy routine, allowed herself instead to become pail and nervous when she appeared to have botched a line.

"we will grow or be left behind, "

she said, baffling the audience,

"The easy thing is to just keep going
without thinking."

"look at the most successful people, what do they care about - that which should hinder their success?

They don't care, they don't think about it. They only care about being successful. "

"look at them, those success stories. look where they have their cross-hairs aimed, poised to kill. They'll do what it takes, the rest of you will be left behind."

"We react, they do. We react."

"I don't think anyone in here is really better off. The rest of you will be left behind, you won't even have to think about it, because you will. The action will speak for itself, all your reaction is speculative.

"We react. They do: we react."



people begin to stand and leave the room as she speaks her piece, eager to leave the oven they have found themselves in. a bored man coughs and turns in his seat periodically.

"but the chance to to revive is forever."

she might as well have been speaking feverishly out in the street, but the people all
paid to come see her speak, eager. The air in the room thickens from the restlessness stirring over the room. A baby starts to cry in the back row.

"Life," she takes a deep breath. Clutching the side of the podium, she closes her eyes wobbling in place, she continues.

"Life will be had in pursuit, or in reflection and misery:
I allow myself the satisfaction,
or
I need be responsible for my actions."

she raises her dizzy head, opens her eyes slowly, and looks into the thinning audience for a moment, then up, toward the ceiling, allowing herself to fall backward.

The next person to leave, a red, bristle-faced man wipes sweat from his neck with an oily rag, and shoves the rag in his pocket as he stands to leave. He turns to face the aisle, kicking one of the folding chairs as he steps forward. The baby in the back row let's out a shrill cry and whines jumbled syllables into the air. Beside the podium, on stage, she lays in a careless heap. More people use the opportunity to leave the chairs and head toward the exit, assuming it part of the performance. unriveted, the last of show's patrons shake their heads as the stand, allowing the last of them to turn out the lights and quietly close the door behind them.

A faint hum falls over the room as the ventilation system switches on, the air in the room thins and cools, the empty chairs creak as they adjust to the space.

...