How far has a chap fallen that his lower jaw is
quite chap-fallen? Question follows question in search of a punch-line. Was it
de rigueur to talk to a skull? On such familiar terms? On stage? After dark? In
a graveyard? Is it now? Theatre uses aliases, alas. Jaw falls open and it’s all
laughs, disarming grins, a fixed smile. Our Yorick moments increase with time,
Buster Keaton’s gibes and gambols, the mad rogue Goons wont to set the table on
a roar, fellows of infinite jest we replay inside, on January afternoons, too
hot for gardening, or reading, even.
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