I never thought I'd be standing some time recently a stockroom labeled “Dead Clown Storage”, but here I am. The paint on the sign is obscured, spread like it was crying inside the rain. It shouldn't exist—this put. A cold metal entryway groans open like it knows insider actualities and regrets.
Insides, the examine smells like old flexible noses, neglected beauty care products, and chuckling that passed on yelling. Lines of clown suits hang like ghost skins, cleanse and holding up for no one. A broken reddish tricycle lies sideways near a part reflect. I see me standing up to in it—but something in me grins back with painted teeth.
Who may be a dead clown? I asked myself, Is it someone that ran out of jokes or someone the world ceased being nice with? But it's more strict here. Conceivably underneath the tarp inside the corner, there's ** someone—or something—with mammoth shoes and a changeless grin, dead but still resonating.
Each circus has its conclusion. Maybe this put is where they all go when the highlight blurs and the kids end clapping. Maybe each snicker costs a bit of their soul, and this will be where the commitment is paid.
There's a rosy swell coasting within the corner. It hasn't moved in minutes.
I have to be take off. But I'm cemented. I feel like within the occasion that I breathe as well uproarious, something will sound.
And I swear… one of those clown noses reasonable jerked.