AMOUR FOU VII
Disclaimer: "Batman" and its characters are property of DC Comics and Warner Bros.
Therapy n°5:
"Melancholy female silhouette"
Consider green lakes A broken arrow in a bloody pool In the shadow of his smile
And the idiocy of clocks
Someone shot nostalgia in the back
Someone shot our innocence
The wound in the face
Of midnight proposals
Someone shot nostalgia in the back
Someone shot our innocence
This hazy morning Harleen Quinzel's thoughts are obscured and her head hurts. Right above her nape a bluish swelling made her combing a nightmare. A red scarf hides the bruises on her neck. A clear reproduction of his fingers. She slept badly and woke up worse, after an evening of complete apathy. She wanted to discharge tension at the gym this morning, before noticing that her world was swimming around her.
The Gotham zoo is almost deserted in the morning. The bizarre calls of caged animals keep her company while she eats a hot dog and thinks about herself. Gibbons scream, a trumpeting, wings fluttering… and the hyenas. She has been watching them for twenty minutes. Two cubs were born and no one paid attention to them, because of a newborn polar bear. They're so small and cute as mother hyena watches them closely as they playfully fight. Maybe she should get a dog to greet her when she returns home.
She has no plans for the morning: her only aim is to clear her mind. She wishes Pamela was there, to unwind with her, telling her what happened. But right now Pamela is locked inside a lab, fertilizing geraniums. She sent her a message, hoping the other woman will remember to turn the cell phone on, inviting her to come call her tonight. She needs a friend by her side to avoid going totally crazy. Because the events of yesterday have been unreal.
I can't really have thought that stuff. It's madness. Makes no sense at all.
The freak show escapee proved to her that he could kill her at any time in an instant, and all she felt was that she wished that instant to last forever. What did she see in his disfigured face to make her want to be his to her last cell? Harleen can't remember, and doesn't wish to repeat the experience. To hell with her book, even. She'll complete her survey and be one with the Joker definitively. She can't fixate on the idea of being truly in love with him. It would be masochism, and she's not like that. She must think about herself, her life, her future. She can't put everything at risk and be dragged in that folly. She's always made it, somehow, even when things in her life were taking a disastrous turn. Maybe that's how she's expiating?
Not true, she keeps telling herself. She can't possibly have wanted to caress his wounded face, can't have felt the instinct to stand between his body and Morales' blows, can't really have only pretended to sedate him. Not that. Maybe she only dreamed about it. The news didn't mention trouble at the asylum, so she surely shot him with the dang sedative. Yes, surely it's what happened. Everything else probably was caused by the blow her head took. Every other explanation is absurd.
A repulsing homicidal maniac without inhibiting instincts… I must not lose sight of this side of the problem.
The next time she'll meet him she'll be firmly in control. One learns from her mistakes, Harley. And his pitfalls are quite childish.
She closes her eyes as she thinks to be hearing his taunting voice echo in her mind asking her: "Pitfalls, what are you talking about? I didn't do it, Harley Quinn".
She's almost grateful to hear the phone ring. Talking with someone more real than a sick fantasy will do her good.
The displayed number is unknown to her but a manly voice immediately introduces itself as belonging to Carl Wayland, of legal firm Hyden, Jones, Thompson & Wayland. What it took to remind her of what she was doing and why. A psychiatric survey requires no empathy. One has only to string some data together. She'll think about the aftermath later.
"I called your office and was told you had the morning off. I hope you won't mind me getting your cell phone number. I need to talk to you with some urgency, before the preliminary audience next Wednesday".
This soon? Are they expecting miracles?
Bottom line, they all can't wait to know what will happen to the Joker. Less than a week to decide. Too many things changed in the last few hours. Getting rid of him would be a relief, and yet…
"I thought I had more time" she replies sullenly. Her eyes follow two purple clad figures. Their hair are a shade of green more brilliant than the original. One of them turns to face her, gifting her with a scarlet smile on his pallid face.
So we've come to this? Teenagers ape him and the police says nothing. Well, everyone can dress as they please…
"I know, doctor, but we did our best to shorten the procedure. Now, if suits you, I'd like to know when could we meet. It's also likely that the vice-attorney will want to talk to you".
The boy in purple hints at a bow then, with the dexterity of a magician, extracts a card from a pocket of his jacket and launches in on her lap. Then he walks away circling with an arm the other Joker's shoulders; the latter's svelte frame makes Harleen realize it was a girl.
"If you're in such a hurry we could meet at lunch. I'm back to work at three".
The lawyer hesitates. He may do as he pleases. She knows perfectly that the Joker is what they all would call a madman. It's an easily assigned label to anyone who bends the rules, knowingly or not. She picks up the card the clown threw her. It is, what else?, a joker.
Soon the cages will be for the supposedly normal folks.
"Fine… fine, doctor. Could you be at one in Baker street, at 'da Pietro'?"
And just where would I be then?
"No problem. See you there".
Harleen Quinzel realizes she's starving only after entering the restaurant and being assailed by the scent of spaghetti with ragout and roasted meat with white wine. A single serving and she'll feel heavy for the next three months, but she decides to roll with it and intensify her gym workouts.
Wayland is a curly headed, open faced guy. They're more or less of the same age. It's amazing that he's already partner in a legal firm of such renown. The successful youth, Gotham's future… And a terrorist with his face painted among us. Oh sure, our generation just won't be held back.
The lawyer's handshake is firm but cold. She doesn't like him. Instinctively she takes him off a list of perspective fiancées, despite his winning smile. Only when tackling some baked potatoes after twenty minutes of pointless prattle they finally touch the Joker topic.
"As you might have guessed, doctor Quinzel, we're hoping for a declaration of insanity. The way things went it looks obvious to us that our client lives in a world of his own, which makes him refractory to any attempt at a reintroduction into society without intense psychiatric care. Which means that either the judge listens to us, or the character known as the Joker is bound to serve more life sentences than one could count on two hands. To prevent this, I need a declaration from you. Would it be possible to know what impression you formed about my client?"
His client…
"Who's really paying you, mister Wayland? I doubt the Joker himself hired you, seeing as you ignore even his name, like everyone else".
They have talked. What could possibly have Mr. J said to him? 'OK, sweetcheeks, from now on you're my lawyer'? Unlikely.
Wayland now looks like someone who knows something. "Can't say, doctor. We were contacted by someone who wishes to remain in the shadows".
She doesn't like this one bit. Who could be interested in letting loose someone who within a few months made Gotham into a slaughterhouse?
"The mystery man…" she replies sarcastically. Some big time mobster, probably, although such secrecy is extravagant. "So what's the point of this meeting? Handing me a wad from your boss to declare that the Joker is crazy and should be locked up in an asylum? It's not necessary. He is crazy. And dangerous". She takes her scarf off to show him her neck. "This is his handiwork. After calling me 'pumpkin pie'".
Wayland chuckles, then with a cough is back into all business mode, realizing that's nothing to laugh about. "I'm sorry. Must have been a bad experience… But rest assured, I'm not here to bribe you. It's not in our employer's style. She's too classy to stoop to such little ways".
She?
"I see" Harleen states. "What then?"
"Then, as soon as you've determined the final outcome of the review I'd like you to relate it to me. Before anyone else, I mean. I wish to find a way to make everyone happy. I don't want a plea bargain, but from what you told me that won't be necessary. I'll have to contact you often in the coming days, for which I apologize in advance".
She pictures them together, Wayland and the Joker. Mr. J ordering him to have a rose delivered to her. She only wants to know if the billet was of his own writing. Has this lawyer been so imprudent as having given him a pen?
"Did I get it right, you're being paid by a woman? And who is she, Joker's mommy?"
"Or a secret, millionaire wife for what I know. I told you, doc, I can't tell you who she is".
Right.
A woman without name but with plenty money pays legal assistance for a man without name who only has a plenty of sharp blades. Wayland's jokes about supposed wives and such don't make her laugh.
"Who would be crazy enough to marry such a guy?" she whispers toying with the rosemary.
"Indeed".
Indeed what?
"May I ask you what you and the Joker talked about when you met at Arkham?" She has to know. She isn't at all sure that he's not just playing the madman angle.
And you could also tell me the name of the filthy harlot who's paying you. She's practically trying to buy Mr. J. Who knows what sordid tie they have.
Wayland shakes his head slowly. "Not much really. I was there with my assistant. He just told me how he got his scars. I can't think of it without feeling sick" he says frowning.
Splendid. He opened his heart to his lawyers. With her, instead, he chose the rough treatment. They'll have to have a talk, this afternoon. He can't treat her like that. She's a professional, and takes matters very seriously.
"He had a rough life. I'm not surprised that his brain is the way it is. That aside, he told us to do as we saw fit. He also stated that he could leave either Arkham or Blackgate whenever he wanted to, so our efforts were redundant. And to bring his respects to the lady who's footing the bill".
The bastard.
"I don't think we'll have to take him to the courtroom. It will be judge McLean's call. Anyway, I'll keep you up to date".
Wayland probably offered further information, but she's not listening. She doesn't feel well at all. Her gastric juices are on a rampage and not because of the wonderful lunch. This luxury lawyer is really naïve. Probably the Joker and his sweetheart, whoever she is, are playing with them all. With her more than anyone else.
Who is she, Mr. J? Why is she interested in you?
She would like to be able to check the income tax of the entire female population of Gotham and find the one in question among the ladies who could afford a fancy firm.
Idiot. Probably she's just the patsy of some mobster.
She'd rather think it's like that. She wants to think she's the only one who cares for Mr. J. The only woman in his life. She accepts an espresso to end the meal. Maybe it will clear her mind… and send away the stomach pain.
I want to go home, is all Harleen Quinzel can think.
Her patient is let into the ambulatory. Same old story: straps, sedatives, suggestions, anxious looks. A tiresome script. And now, finally alone, she doesn't know what to do with him, his endless fretting, his fixed smile. But a second is all it takes her to realize she's not afraid. The memory of yesterday has faded, leaving only a sensation of having brushed something extraordinary. Where is it now? In his mobile hands, apparently eager to be set free from the leather keeping them together? Or in his twisted mind?
What am I supposed to do with you, Mr. J? And what do you want to do of me?
"Good morning, Harley Quinn. I've been a real angel, wasn't I? You didn't pierce me and I paid you back not turning the place into a churrascaria. Wasn't it great? This makes us best friends, correct? Come here, gimme a hug".
I did not do that. I sedated you. So, stop this now.
Less than a week: too short as time to lose it completely. She really shouldn't be worried.
"I spoke with your lawyer today. The preliminary hearing is scheduled for Wednesday morning, so I'm quite in a hurry. For starters, you could take a seat and answer a few simple questions".
He laughs. Well, what else? Trite.
"Simple questions? Let's see… Yes, I like children. Crying. No, I never had problems with women. All it takes to conquer one is having her find a rose in her study and… I'll sit alright if you sit with me, butter ball".
No, this won't do. She must extract some information about him. She can't let herself be dragged in such a rambling joust.
"Sit down, or I'll have you tied" she menaces, almost growling.
This is apparently incredibly amusing to him. Then something inside him changes and all of a sudden he's looking at her with unexpected seriousness. That look makes her uneasy, but she refuses to look impressed.
"Your neck just looks like it was made to fit my hands, Harley" he whispers as if he just discovered something extraordinary. "But why aren't you afraid? I was only joking, you know? It was a joke. Just a joke. Not even a good one. But what was that quaint look? What's wrong with you? You're not normal, you know?"
Harleen looks at him incredulously and for a moment thinks she heard him wrong. She didn't: the Joker is really awaiting her reply, but she can only burst into laughter.
"What's wrong with me? The Joker swears I am not normal. This is really priceless".
Clearly she's got the advantage. He looks almost incensed. Maybe the time has come to close on him.
"How do you define normalcy, Mr. J? What you did until yesterday was normal? According to what ethical system?"
Seeing his smile return is almost comforting. "Ethics? Are you a priest or a shrink, Harley? Nope, nothing I do is ethical. Every single thing I do is extraordinary. I already told you that. I'm the unexpressed dream of the average common guy. Which side are you on, Harley?"
"My side" she curtly replies. Quack philosophy for a massive ego. Nothing new. "Apparently you don't like being questioned, Mr. J. But we don't have much choice, unless you want to spontaneously tell me something specifically".
"You really don't have a clue about getting a conversation on, do you, my cookie? I did promise you a big fat secret. I haven't forgotten, you know?"
As if suddenly tired, Mr. J lies down on the couch and closes his eyes. So apparently helpless, he looks lethal to Harleen.
"But as we decided to trusty each other I also wish you would tell me one of your secrets. Something you'd never tell anyone. Then I'll tell you anything you want".
For real?
A gunshot. Harleen's eyes close. She should not think about it. Secrets. What's safer than a madman's mind to hold them? But not that one. That one must be buried.
"Deal. To get into the psychiatry department I blackmailed the dean. Are you satisfied?"
She's going to pay for this sooner or later. There are things that just shouldn't be confessed openly. Ever.
The Joker throws at her a quite disappointed glance. "If this wasn't so banal, I'd find it pathetic. I expected better of you". Then he breaks into humming, without taking his eyes off her. "Ok, that will do. I'll do an effort and pretend I found it funny".
It's really a bad day if even he can spoil her mood. She's getting nowhere.
"What should I do with you?" she asks, not really expecting him to know. She knows full well what she should do. A signature and nothing more.
"Do you think you could heal me, Harley?"
Harleen moves her chair back as he gets up and stands in front of her, hands on the desk. And now? On the desk lie a paper cutter, a few pens, all potential weapons she stupidly left within his grasp.
"Heal me? And from what? And to make me into what?"
Leaning over her, he waits for her answer. Healing him. That's truly madness. And losing him, absorbed into the shapeless crowd. It's sacrilege even to think about it. "No. I like what you are now. I only want to understand you. I want…"
I want to feel what you feel.
Feeling his tied hands on her face she inhales deeply. Apparently she always returns to square one. She wishes someone could point her the way out. It wasn't a moment of weakness. She's falling. She fell already. She's agonizing at the bottom.
My clown.
Some tensing in her cheeks forces her to relax her lips.
"Keep your smile, Harley. There's truly nothing else to do in this crazy world".
His eyes are sad. It's odd that she should only notice now. His eyes can't smile. This is his drama. No knife shall ever render them different.
"How did you get those scars?" she asks, leaving all considerations of prudence behind.
But Mr. J relinquishes his hold on her face while apparently weighing something important. There are really no doubts: every movement he makes is reflective of a disturbed mind. So why can't she think of him as just another patient?
"Do they scare you, Harley? Then why can't anyone ever stop looking at them? It's maniacal. You want to know how… No, I don't think I want to share that with you".
So he trusts his lawyer more than her. Wonderful, she'll make a note of it. She gazes into his face like she had to imprint his features in her mind. Everything notwithstanding he looks tired, as if his appearance mirrored a waning spirit.
"What happened to the barber? Shouldn't he have come yesterday?"
The shadow on his cheeks makes the indelible signs of his past stand out even more. Harleen thinks it sad and unfair. He, instead, seems to find a new topic to laugh about.
"Should I place myself in the hands of who knows who? No way. Bugger could just disfigure me".
In spite of herself Harley has to laugh again. Such perpetual losses of control will be her ruin, she knows, but she can't help herself.
"Give me a razor and I'll do it myself" he says, regaling her with another oblique glance.
Sure. Then the party can really begin.
"You know, my coworkers bet on how many times you and I will meet before you kill me…" They told her as much, merrily, as if that was nothing, after feinting sympathy for the aggression she endured.
"Interesting. And you, how many sessions do you think you can last, Harley Quinn?"
Good God, I want to kiss him…
She realizes a major nervous breakdown is on the way for her. She has to make him leave before she bursts into tears in front of him. She doesn't know how he could react, nor she wants to discover it. His strange wincing… Is he mocking her unhappy expression? If that were the case, she'd never forgive him. Unless he hugged her in a painfully crushing embrace.
Then… Then you could also tear me into pieces…
"You let your hair down, Harley Quinn. I like it. But you must put a smile on your soft face. Your mood swings worry me. Can I tell you something to brighten your day? Do you want to know a secret so big, you could blow up Gotham like a massive multicolored flare with it?"
Harleen swallows her need to wallow in misery. Does he really wish to share something with her? It's wonderful. As wonderful as him.
"Yes" she replies assertively. Isn't this a way to become part of him?
"Splendid, Harley. Let's discuss Harvey Dent, then. Care to hear the truth about the Gotham Knight in Shiny Armor's last hours?"
Ricky Thomas called Harleen Quinzel a brainless daredevil when she started vaulting dangerously and without any caution on the beam without an adequate warm-up.
"You risk tearing a muscle. Or breaking some bones. The gym won't cover up the expenses, you hear me?"
She ignored him: too much tension to release. Anything to get Harvey Dent out of her mind. Alas, no such luck.
She returned home, left her groceries on the table and, without so much as showering, turned on the computer. A hour browsing the net didn't disprove what he told her in the least. Worse, she's realizing that the timeline of the district attorney's demise fed the press is literally full of holes.
"They tell you lies to keep you behaved, Harley. Dent is the strawberry lollipop hiding the bitter pill they want to force-fed you because they think you too dense to live in a world without Santa. Who cares if the jolly old gentleman is left to rot stuck in the chimney. You're good kids and deserve a gift. Here's a heroic puppet you can place on your pillow as you go to bed. Here's an inspirational fellow. Harvey Dent, manufactured according to the law. Handle with care. Do not pierce or burn, even after usage".
His voice thunders in her brain, so rambling and frenetic. It's all so horrid and easy to believe. Why did he tell her? And what is he expecting from her now?
Maybe… Maybe being bored to death was better…
Gotham, as fake as her heroes. One might just as well paint his face white and lie openly while stating the truth: that maybe they all really deserve to die, herself first.
Only you would stand still, Mr. J. Triumphing over a city of ruins. You who understood Gotham's true nature and deride her and stab her back.
They locked him up because he's better than them, nothing else. They locked him up because they'd rather turn away their eyes and believe their own tales. Now they want her to declare him insane, and make him like them. Now she knows why: their fear isn't legitimate. It's rotten. Scary. Gotham is a huge asylum. Black-winged vigilantes claiming to be murders. Knights in shiny armor flipping coins to decide between life and death. And the police just plays along.
What about me? Am I going to play the game? Will he be cold, down there in the hole? It's freezing there.
She feels childish because of such absurd spurts of tenderness amidst such suffocating angst. But there's little she could do now except for desperately lying to herself as anyone breathing such unhealthy air should. Is there a way out? It shouldn't have happened. Not to her.
Why did you choose me to spring your trap, Mr. J? Tell me, and I will forever be your Harlequin.
The doorbell wakes her up abruptly. For how long has she been looking at the screen without seeing it? Quite a bit, her flowery screensaver tells her.
And now? At the door someone's being persistent. She doesn't know who could it be. Just go and see, silly…
Pamela Isley has a new haircut, a potted plant in hand and a seriously scared look.
"Are you well my dear? I came as fast as I could!"
What?
No, she's not feeling well. But Pamela can't possibly know that. Then she remembers about the message she sent her this morning. And she's there. Red is always there for her. She wants to tell her that nothing serious happened, but her nerves choose this moment to crumble. She finds herself hugging her friend and weeping on her shoulder. She hears her mumble something about crushed peonies, then she lets herself be led in. Everything is confused except for her burning eyes, some pain in her chest and Pamela hugging her. Asked about the welts on her neck Harleen just tells her. She tells her everything without hiding a thing and hears Pam repeat "The bastard… that damned sicko…", so she dries her eyes and asks her not to say so, that it's her fault and Mr. J…
"I'm in trouble, Red. Whenever I'm with him I lose my head. And when I'm not I can only think of him. I'm sick, Pam. I can't have been looking for him all my life. It makes no sense. It doesn't, right?"
"No, it doesn't". Pamela looks furious now, as she leaves her alone on the couch.
Harleen wants to ask her to be back. Pamela is so comforting. Perhaps because she's so much taller than her, she makes her feel as if she were a baby needing affection.
"It doesn't" she repeats entering the kitchen. "I'll make you herb tea, pup. You'll drink it all and then we can have a little serious talk".
Herb tea?
She hears her friend bustle with stove and kettle. Being tended to feels nice, although Pamela makes her feel as if she got the flu.
"What the hell… Harley, what are you supposed to do with shaving foam and four sorts of aftershave?" Pamela's voice is angry and her face even more so as she returns to the living room and shoots her a seething glance.
"I went shopping" Harleen defends herself. "I forgot to put the stuff away" she attempts with a grin, but Pam does not look to be softened.
"Tell me that it's not for… for Mr. Imbecile. What's wrong with you, Harley? You're clever and capable. You can't really have a crush on that monster. Where's the wise friend who just a week ago was lecturing me? Guess what? You were right. On everything. And now? You break on me tearfully that you're in love with the Joker! The Joker, dammit!"
"Don't shout…"
When she's like this Pamela really scares her. Harley curls on the sofa. Did she perhaps say that she broke up with Jason Woodrue? Did she, or was it just an impression? Completely swapping roles in so little time is farcical.
What am I supposed to do now? How do I get out of it?
Pamela can scream herself hoarse and get into a rage, Harleen knows she understands her after all. Logic, reason, sense disappear before stomach cramps, the wish to touch someone, grab him, sink your nails into his flesh so that he won't go away. And she calls him a monster. So many do call him a monster. So why should he restrain from squashing them all? None of them ever asked him anything. Yet she knows there has to be a knot to be loosened inside him, screaming, and she's the only one with the means to listen to it.
It shall hurt me, I know that. But without him I'd feel worse.
Is it worth risking so much? And for what? He'll never leave Arkham. And she'll go on talking to him day after day, until the end. Not what she'd dreamed about. But it's somewhat poetic, after all.
To wall myself alive with you… Until you'll decide you had enough. But I won't let that day come.
She spends the subsequent minutes watching her hands, until Pamela hands her a steaming cup. The herbal smell makes her nose wrinkle.
"What's this? This vile stuff is yours, right?"
Pamela sits by her side. "Don't be a baby, just drink it. I brought you a small supply of it from home. Have it for ten mornings straight. If you love me, do. You'll feel better afterwards. I'm giving you a gift".
The concoction is bitter and nausea-inducing. Harleen has to fight it back to down half the liquid. She should ask Pamela about Woodrue - that's what a true friend would do. Maybe tomorrow, if she'll sleep in her home.
"Harleen, we have to take a trip, you and me. Take a vacation. We shall leave as soon as possible. Let's get away. Let's forget about horrible men for a while, be it my scumbag boss or your hideous slaughterer. Let's get away from everything".
"Don't call him that" Harleen scolds her.
Leaving? That would be easy. If only she could really do that.
"Harley, you can't…" Pam offers her a disgusted frown. "I can't even think about it. You're so cute, and he… No, no, I can't bring myself to even say that. Tell me nothing happened. Tell me you didn't even kiss him".
She should stop the pantomime. It's getting to her nerves. "Not yet" she replies.
Pamela is making things worse. Now she's reinforcing in her the determination to protect him, to defend him from those who simply can't hope to understand how extraordinary he is.
How many other men would immediately realize you have a new haircut, Pam?
She sees her pass her hand on her brow, as if about to give up, but Harleen knows too well that it's not the case.
"Does he know? Because if he does, you're in trouble. He could well have prepared everything artfully. Maybe he hopes to use you as an instrument to his evasion, did you consider that? Harley, do you realize what that guy did?"
Of course I do…
Harvey Dent's reassuring grin, his wholesome clean looks…
Who are we to judge him, Red? Which one of us is without sin?
The finger's on the trigger. She entreats "We can set everything right". And the shot…
He chose me because I'm like him.
Identical. Self-centered. Cruel. Yet she still feels the need to keep her pretension of innocence up. Mr. J is free, instead. Free in spite of the solid walls around him.
"I must keep my smile, Pam. There's truly nothing else to do in this crazy world".
Pamela shakes her head, unable to understand. She tells her some strange things, that she needs to go out with someone, that she hasn't had a date in too long a time. She nods. Maybe it's a good idea. Maybe she should only remind herself that there's a whole wide world beside the Arkham Asylum.
"I could call Jonathan. And ask him to bring a friend along for you…"
"Harley…" Lecturing again. But she's sure she didn't do anything wrong this time. "Don't you have the number of someone that's not a psycho memorized in your cell phone?"
The answer is simple: she does, but tends to ignore them. She can't even say she has real friends except for Pamela. When did she stop looking at the outside world? Her first day at Arkham?
"Speaking of psychos, did you see this?" Pamela reaches for her purse and picks out the Gotham Times. On the front cover is a humongous question mark.
A new criminal on the city scene challenges the police with riddles
WHO IS THE RIDDLER?
Is a new wave of terror coming? Commissioner James Gordon states: "We're facing someone who could make the Joker look an amateur".
Riddler… It's a joke. Mr. J an amateur. What kind of monkey business is this? If only he were free, he'd have this newcomer in his place in an afternoon's work.
If only he were free…
All our dreams have melted down All our stories burnt Extracting wasps from stings in flight
We are hiding in the bushes
From dead men
Doing Douglas Fairbanks' stunts
Our films lost in the rushes
We can't paint any pictures
As the moon had all our brushes
Who killed Mr. Moonlight?
In the shadow of his smile