Across the theater of her mind paraded an unending procession of masked figures, faceless players enrobed in the same costumes, enacting the same stories without pause or intermission. The tales blended into one another, such that she no longer recalled which was which, nor if any of them had at one point been true. For that matter, she was uncertain whether she had ever really been awake; might her impressions of strange instruments and white-coated men not be themselves the fragments of a slumbering fancy? She could not tell, and did not care. She could not wake herself. She waited.


A Sleeping Beauty Figure