The scene cuts away, and the camera pans out.
I take my final bow.
A faint melody is playing in the background,
the musings of a distant piano player.
It is 12:12 AM. The room is dark now, finally. The play has finished.
Now I may rest.
The lights are dimmed.
The crowd is filtering out.
They have prepared their testimonies, written on paper,
their prosecution and defense.
These are my sentiments, on the stage,
and this is the reviewers' backlash.
I am the playwright condemned,
The fleeting muse has taken flight,
and the production has been swallowed.
Encore, a soft voice cries, encore.
But the voice is wholly ignored.
Now is the Final Act.