There is a sadness when a play ends, that I will now attempt to pontificate upon. Sure, you will see the people again, and the play again (hopefully) – but it’s just not the same. The play is done. And you want more than anything to either hug it goodbye or nuzzle into its shirt or kidnap it and force it to live in your closet, but sadly you can’t do any of these things, as it has no arms or body, but now exists only in the air, or memory.
Sadder still, the theater where Mine was done – that is officially the last play to be done in that theater, ever – the owner can no longer afford the rent so it’s going to be turned into a Baby Gap or Tapa’s bar or Lindsay Lohan’s apartment or something. Ms. Lohan best beware of ghosts running lines; hanging lights.