EMERALD
What have I got to give to you, Emerald, to
make you understand? My foot soldiers are all
gone, the voices in the courtyard are just their
echoes. They were all finished anyway, after
about sixth grade. I never knew their wages to
do me any good : send them off to war, they
come back limping when I wanted them dead.
Like Pilate, let me wash my hands of this whole
stinking mess. Need I say something pithy as
well? Something a thousand ages will always
remember? Nothing but the truth, but what
is that? Ermine robes, Corsican hats, the
folderol of drama, prancing across the
stage. Ah, me. If I could do it all
again, I probably would.
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