Seven shorn pinnacles of latticed angle-iron stood, the teeth of the anchored. Wild breath sweetens on the brim of the standing, braced with united screw threads. Foam of the unkempt deep wades onto the lap of the earth in time to drink of its drought to the glittering dregs. The disco ball hangs like the spider’s egg sac, a pregnant droplet dry and full of life. Tracing the warm lode through the grin of ill savour, one who rocks the dory is with us. Soon the collar will close about the stage, the veil fall across the crisscrossing thinkers, and a rail in the floor will carry all through the ears to the shorn pinnacle, the iron struts of the cold theatre.