Thus he ran on carelessly in this cynical vein; but I, after a time, paid no attention to his Timonisms, being taken up with the spectacle of a crowd in the street surrounding a carriage.
He had been sleeping on top of the coverlet it seemed, and he still had on his swamp-stained pants, which had dried cakily along his legs.
It was a sitzprobe and the music was just popping up out of the pit – I was sitting right behind him – and he was having a ball.
As I listened to the words as they were coming out of my mouth, I realized that I sounded like Ozzy Osborne after three brimfuls of Merlot and a handful of Vicodin .
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