(no subject)

:
There hasn't been much to report.  Theater season has apparently died down, and the rumors I had heard of a period production of Недоросль were sadly exaggerated. (The gossip is that the theater group disbanded over a lover's spat, but who can say if these are true.)  I have discovered a taste for enriched wormwood, if I am properly configured.  Really, though, I feel dreadful as I stare across the still lake with bleary eyes. 

Keeping the production of Neibelung going has proven next to impossible, and we have agreed to do fewer shows.  I have no idea what I will move on to, next.  Perhaps a recital or two.  Several have insisted on Mikado, but I find that work insipid.   My attempts to drum up a producer for Il posto abbandonato, ossia Adele ed Emerico can be charitably described as "ineffective."  Even if bel canto returns to favor, I am hardly suited for any roles.  Whenever I consider reconstruction, I throw myself into an erotic congress to remind me of what I enjoy. Each lifting of these heavy scales is more and more cumbersome, and I should not sink beneath their weight.

Tonight: something improvised, if anything at all.