She was beautiful, her hair fell in raven waves down to the small of her back, there was a crimson ribbon taming it. She wore a long skirt and a half corset over a white sleeveless blouse, the srimson was the only colour she wore, everything else was dull greys and browns.
He was furious, how could they twist his words this way, corrupt what he wrote. It was his story, it was supposed to be new and revolutionary but all he got was the same tired cliche, over and over again. So much for modern reinterpretation.
So much for being a ghost. Forced to watch over and over a gain hapless directors beleiving they were being so cutting edge mangle the thoughts, the feelings, the soul that he had poured on to the page so clearly.
Even the kids in the schools did it better, devilish eyes, thats what you needed to really see it, the devilish eyes of a child. To see the truth to see what he really meant.
It was so cold, and at this point he wished that more Elisabethans could have afforded seats. Deep in the heart of the Globe, Shakespeare turned his back and walked into nothing