20180301

Day 1,270

You woke up in a theatre, convinced that you'd fallen asleep during the opera. As you glanced around at the other patrons your memories seeped in and you remembered that you'd been here for roughly eight or so decades. Others had been there for so much longer that their skin resembled the thin silkish parchment of the programme and all their eyes the same dull milky-blue cataracts that stared longingly at a stage they couldn't possibly see.

You didn't dare pull your compact out from your bag to see if you looked like them, you wouldn't even look down at your own hands. All you did between resting your aching eyes is watch the current Act and puzzle over how it fit with the one you remembered last.

With every awakening you noticed the theatre grew a little emptier, your fellow patrons (or were you prisoners at this point?) had either found the strength to leave or had been removed. You wondered when it would be your turn, if you survived that long.

Each sleep seemed to last longer than the last and each Act left you grasping at straws, staring at the programme and trying to decode the glyphs in the hopes that you might better understand why you were there and what the opera was all about.

You know that soon you will be the only patron left.

Just one last sleep should do it.

One final rest.

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