September the fourth. A whole night spent writing from within the rings of fire, at the circus. A whole block of hours spent suspended from reality, the nets below disintegrating and unraveling. September the fourth is the anniversary of her spirit’s inward collapse, the reckoning and the tallying up…it is the day she lay down her masks and her costumes, the day she stopped flinging bright glitter from her hands so that those who looked at her would not look into her eyes, but out into the air all around her, where magic and color swirled.
September the fourth. The day the jesters stopped dancing, the night a Phantom Spectre cracked a whip and all the lions ceased their roaring, the entire circus coming to an abrupt stop, the trick walls and paint and electronic cannons all illuminated.