Rolled.

In the Learned Elder's speech a supernatural rhythm and cadence could be heard, and it caused a sudden fever to break over a young male in the crowd. Which consequently caused him to vomit and crap his pants as he sat in his place of privilege in this particular audience, listening and deciphering in the words of the speaker grand plans for the future. He thought to himself that this experience is like theatre. Like the most powerful theatre he had ever witnessed. Like the kind of theatre which deserved a majestic place for its staging, and not this concrete bunker of sorts; not this grand cave. For it was like the theatre from another world. Like the kind of show which was first performed in a distant and well-lit place. Like the kind of show first performed in a distant place and which was lit-up by a master lighting technician. In fact, as the young male thought along these lines, he realized that this was theatre with a whole team of master collaboraters and contributors behind it. And, it was only at this moment that he realized that even he himself was part of the performance. For as the words, full-of-poison reached his mind, he continued to sweat and stink, and the sweat and fluids escaping him held the toxins being purged from his body in this effective process. He was like an interface to this particular show. A bit player without the bits or faculty to make more sense of all that he was hearing, but at least equipped with a kind of filter. Nevertheless, the information seemed to wash over him in a filthy, smelly mess of a staggered-kind of deluge. He wanted desperately to join-the-dots of this perilous failure he was witnessing, but found that he himself was a failure for his troubles in trying. He needed Whitman in full-voice, glory, and in close proximity; but with this 'idealized figure' on a different continent there would be little help or assistance to make things better than they were - and so he just lost more fluids, became physically skinnier, and continued to smell like a bag of crap under the oppressive heat of one-hundred-percent humidity. At the conclusion of the performance he awoke to the fact that many people seated near him had moved away to stand and sit in more pleasant locations. Locations which – at this stage - would change with his movement into them. He didn't dare move lest he cause more offence and inconvenience. What a wanker they must think he is to have performed like this, and in this manner. He shook his head slightly. Like in disappointment. And like emerging from another failed state of recognition. And so as he sat in his hard chair he thought that all that was left for him to do now, was to reassemble the jumble of – the few - words which stayed with him from this performance he experienced and felt like he played an unwilling part in. A jumble of words which he suddenly realized, formed a riddle in an order which held meaning to him. A riddle which needed to be solved. In the same way he NEEDED to remove his soiled clothes to be able to smell himself like he was before tonight's construction. He smiled to himself and shook his head differently from just earlier; a production is what it was, not the similar sounding – and defining – other word.