To fiddle on yes? What else is there to do.

Hey, listen. I'm the lady who used to write you comedy.

Catch those laughs.

Slick stand-ups, monologues and the like.

Do you remember?

Where did that lady go? Did you see her? I've sent out a search warrant but she doesn't show.

I have lost my exuberance from this half-mended inner wound. If ever you spot it again, do let me know.

For now, it has vanished.

I must return to my stage play. No more pussyfooting about it. I say, I say. Naughty girl, me.

Just don't forget to put up a roadblock for my runaway exuberance. It's wrapped in a sweater of roses, to keep it from the cold and it stares dreamily at swallows in a sunset. And sometimes on a good day, it curls up to an old Marianne Faithfull song. The kind that makes you cry buckets. If you ever see it once more, do whistle up a storm. My soul fled with the flight of wind.

Now, I miss me.