Board Thread:Roleplay/@comment-33209858-20161121040642/@comment-3991308-20161122090447

Sage was stress-walking. It was the same as normal walking, except he was stressed. And he was stressed because he couldn’t think of a brilliant title for his new play. He was also stressed because the narrator’s syntax made him sound like he was in a Hemingway novel. Sage hated Hemingway novels.

Among such stress, Sage decided that to chill out (ha, as if an artist like him should chill! He was a man driven by raw emotion!) by reorganising some cupboard. He already organised the sheet music cupboard, the second sheet music cupboard, and the “really badly written sheet music” cupboard. Sage was getting sick of stave lines and bar lines and the lines of worry that furrowed into his forehead so he decided to go organise a costume cupboard.

In particular, the costume cupboard near the entrance of the performing arts building. He shifted through capes and fake crowns for a while. Tired of that, he arched his head towards the upper shelves, where a wig came into view.

Well. In a word, it was beautiful. Perfect, even, and Sage never used that word lightly. Nothing was faultless, after all. But this wig? It was wonderfully curly, styled in that intricate way that ladies from the 18th century would style their hair. The only place fit for such a wig was upon the head of whatever actress would land the role of his beloved Belinda.

Belinda, the name of his protagonist. Proud Belinda, beautiful Belinda. Belinda, Belinda, Belin-- oh yeah, Sage thought, I should probably grab it and save it for the play.

So he did just that.

He leaned on the tip of his toes now, yet his fingers were still a good ten centimetres away from any lock of that beautiful wig. Sage attempted a few jumps -- still no use. Glancing around the small room, there were no boxes handy, nothing suitable to climb up on. Even the shelves themselves were rickety, too wobbly for a sturdy support.

Struck by his misfortunes, Sage had no choice. The son of Ida lay on the ground, rolling (only emotionally, not physically) in his woe. Flinging the back of his hand to his forehead, he wailed, “Oh, must I abandon my goal, when my height prevents me, and curses me with this eternal struggle?”

The enclosure of the cupboard, like a violin’s body, amplified his pitiful cries to anyone in his near vicinity.