It's late. It's just us alone in heaps at center stagenamong the programs and bouquets crushed on the floor.nWe stay, we'll frolic in the simulated snownand drown the memories of the show that still remain.nnThese games of dress up that consume us utterly.nOh, the pageantry, the empty seats, the lights.nAnd hey, will we be haunted by indifference and regretnand the incalculable debt we'll be stuck with?nnWe try for something something lastingnbetween the rentals and reviews.nOh that was such inspired casting.nIt does invigorate the room.nAnd this alcoholic haze will ultimately fade,nbut what's left, but what's left?nnAnd then one errant strand of hair slips from your braidnand it shivers you the cadence of your breath.nYou stretch, you're sprawled out like a half packed parachutenand every universal truth reveals itself.nnTo try for something something lastingnbetween the rentals and reviews.nOh that was such inspired casting.nIt does invigorate the room.nAnd this alcoholic haze will ultimately fade,nbut what's left, but what's left?nnThese adrenalinic ghosts still linger in their hosts.nThat's what's left. That's what's left.