Ibsen's Ghost
Burrell is in the corner smoking cigarettes, muttering the names of dead playwrights beneath his alcoholic breath as I watch the sun melt into the earth. Through the thick deposed air, I can see him musing over it in his mind, tapping his foot patiently, and staring up at the ceiling as if God is the piece of chewing gum absently stuck to it. State: …
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