We lost another one on Monday. His presentation was unremarkable, and after a few moments of silence, the ground opened up and swallowed him whole. When he had gone, I drew a heavy black line through that page of my notes.

It’s been like this for the past few years, I think. I can’t quite remember when it all started, but I do recall that those first few days were a little disconcerting because we lost so many. There was a terrible strain on production and maintenance. Once in a while, we’ll lose another, but it doesn’t matter much anymore.

I can see why they had to go. We couldn’t have them fleeing in terror or frozen in place when they should be acting. They would start to tremble, grow incredibly pale beneath their perspiration, and vanish one way or another. Stage fright, I think it was called.

Fear is the cause of everything, I’m sure. And as soon as they thought too much about it, as soon as they wished themselves away, the ground opened up beneath them or they simply disappeared. A few have dropped dead on the spot, but I wish they wouldn’t. It’s not all that pleasant to dispose of remains, and I think they could at least have a mind to be courteous. We can’t just leave them until the end of rehearsal, or they become increasingly difficult to work through the doors.

Maybe it makes me sad. I guess the whole enterprise seems more drab, though that could be from the lack of people singing its praises. Apparently, we’ve lost the poets, but they were needlessly emotional, anyway. People shouldn’t have emotions other than what the script dictates.

We haven’t painted any new sets lately. We’ve been recycling old ones from storage because no one can come up with anything new. But that’s fine, because everything has already been done before. What does it matter if we can’t create an original backdrop? It doesn’t reflect negatively on us. We’re not lacking anything.

Beautiful? I haven’t used that word in ages. Of course they’re still beautiful. It’s just a usual kind of beautiful. It’s not a thrilling, exciting sort. People know what to expect when the curtain opens. But then, it’s not as if there is competition from the other companies. They’re in the same predicament. Everyone is capable only of taking direction from the script, from how it has already been interpreted, and nothing new is happening. I do miss the anticipation, though. The applause is only polite, now. They don’t rise from their seats. They don’t gasp and cry and laugh. There’s no sense of wonder. Come to think of it, I haven’t seen a smile in ages. That must be why I think it makes me sad. It makes other people sad, and I’m just feeling it emanating from them.

I meant figuratively. I’m not actually feeling it. It’s not like I’m a liability. I perform accurately. Whatever I might feel doesn’t interfere with the production. I don’t mean what I’m really feeling. I only feel what’s on the page, after all. I’m an actor. I’m just saying that sometimes, only when I’m not performing, only when I’m on my own, I might wish things could be how they used to be. I might wish that I felt admired and talented. Not real feeling. I meant to say. . .oh, fuck it. What the administration doesn’t know won’t hurt it, right?

Please. . . Please, don’t. I didn’t know you worked. . . I don’t know what came over me. They really don’t need to hear this. Just. . .destroy the tape? I’d take it back if I could. Wait! Don’t leave, please. Do I. . .? Yes, of course I wish I hadn’t said it! I wish I hadn’t thought it. I wish--