Tonight, after the curtain calls, a child splashed in the water onstage, near where the barking dogs were chained, by the mangled car where the Andy Warhol lookalike had finished the show, the blood where the white horse shifted nervously, the puddles where the cast has slit each others throats in decorous fall and rise – all between giant framing quotation marks. She picked up the basketball and I wondered what to make of it.
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