A poet appreciates beauty, as a mother appreciates a child. Both things, a poem and a child, were created. From such appreciation is a rising spring of love. Love holds the tolerance and intolerance of fear and surety. Doubt and certainty cling onto each other like the remnants of grapes held at the bottom of a wine bottle.
Antoine wanders down this street, down Avenue de l’Opéra; he knows where he is walking; for he is walking to a theater, named to be Théâtre Edouard VII. He must turn on the street named Boulevard des Capucines and find himself turning left onto a street named Place Édouard VII.
When he arrives, there is a singular observance that flares open his eyes, upon what his eyes have caught.
The longest train to which has ever been witnessed in existence from Antoine, flows like a white river out of the theater, and into the street. Alike to that of esteemed actresses who’ve reached stardom in this time, it extends out seemingly to his feet, and halts. Beauty has made itself a presence on this magnificent train. The wind pushes it, and the wind pulls it. The wind lifts it, and the wind presses it.
There is the adoration that Antoine expresses in his written countenance full of the writing of amazement. He tears his eyes close to the train, and then he begins to follow it. He ascends a few steps to the theater’s door. Then, he quits his movement to gaze ahead.
Before him, he notices a woman’s gentle features.
They are features that look halfway towards him and seem to be frozen on flesh that has many hues and only one crimson blush to a solitary cheek. For that is all what is witnessed by Antoine. It is a cheek and only half a face.
A broken stare, marred by a few tears, wept aloud in the sweet happiness known for a woman dressed in a smile. For her smile collides with a pain that is in her, the presence of unfulfillment. Beauty runs a wild trail down from her dress to her feet. For stardom is the enemy of humanity. Fame taints the actress and creates the mask of theater.
She becomes the harlot, turned towards the amusement for an audience’s candor. They observe; they bow; they kiss; and they drown.
This woman soon notices the fascination exhibited on the face of this Antoine, and she enjoys the nuptiality from that fascination, hurled after her. She smiles a warm smile, full now pure sweetness, and there is no more pain etched into it. Although, it appears as if that smile was only the result of an opiate being inhaled through the nostrils. An escape, away from her reality, and into the arms of a comforting deception.