Epitaph.

The great actor collapsed, magnificent black hair plumed about his gaunt face, a thousand spider legs on luminescent flesh. His long-lashed eyes gazed to the bowed ceiling of the auditorium, into the lights, beyond it, into the unknown. His olive green mantle rumpled betwixt stage and his carefully costumed form, limbs contorted about his meager torso, sharp knuckled hands extending from maroon sleeves, pointed black boots pointing to god's apartment and the burning spotlight cascaded upon him illuminating a bright oval of existence. It was always said his life was his art and so he did not even perspire, his shell did not reflect barbarically, did not require dabbing for his makeup never ran, didn't clump. Even now, he was perfectly composed.

The audience said little. No one screamed but some rose for a better look. Perhaps they were awaiting him to rise with a knowing smirk and elegant bow, a flash of finely tuned teeth and gums as scarlet as Merlot, a skeletal hand at his mantle to draw it aside and back again, a polished boot to tap with upturned heel to stage. They waited, their eyes riveted to the stage. The band in the recess were quiet, perhaps they were waiting too. No one ran from behind the curtain calling for a doctor, no one moved at all.

What was it he had said just before the collapse? "I would rather that you remember me as..." Was that it? Everyone in the audience seemed to be thinking collectively, they turned to each other but no one voiced the inquiry. They then pondered his words, what they must have been. There was the scandal in the local newspaper several months ago about his infidelities, he was interviewed on tele a week ago and confessed he was practically skint. This was all public knowledge. His previous role was ill-received and it had been nearly a decade since his breakthrough - he certainly didn't look forty. In fact, he resembled a child, especially now, an entanglement of body parts and expressionless face with mouth partly open, as if he was devoid of premeditation. He was always improvisational.

All eyes remained on his prostrate form. Was that movement? Did he blink? Did that chest heave ever so slightly or was it a trick of the light? Surely, a finger twitched? Or a repressed smile waited in the wings? Or at least the hair about his face bellowed with faint breathing? They watched him and waited. Not a word was spoken, not a cry was heard. They looked at each other and back at him, the great actor folded into a dramatic contortion of limbs and torso with eyes trained not to blink, lungs daring not to breathe, a repressed smile waiting in the wings.