The Trees Ache

I sleep with lots of plays.

And I try very hard not to sleep with playwrights.
(Mom, Dad - that's a joke.)

Seriously though. Half of my bed is covered with plays right now. Mostly printed out plays, some plays in books, some only half a play, some earlier drafts of plays, some pdfs of music to accompany plays, some short plays written by twelve-year-olds from the Jewish Day School that I said I'd help mount readings of, some linear plays, some plays steeped in magical realism, some long plays, some short plays, some really small font so they'd be lighter in my bag plays, some plays that I will work on some day, some plays that I will never see again, some plays that I promised so-and-so and whoosie-whatsit that I would read as soon as I got a chance which took a back seat to the dozens of plays that I really WANT to read, so many plays I WANT to read.

These plays pile up next to me where a person should be. In lieu of a person, a play isn't so bad.

I hope these plays feel loved. Not everyone makes it into this bed. Really.