Beneath the dim lights of a shuttered theater, a lone spotlight flickers on the empty stage. It's time for a monologue—a disaster of Shakespearean proportions.
"To be fogged, or not to be fogged, that is the question," murmured the shadow of an actor past. He coughed theatrically, pulling an invisible rabbit from his pocket. A bat fluttered by, mistaking it for its own conductor.
The curtains rustle, half-heartedly validating the unprecedented appearance of stage-left's newest feature: a forgotten wicker chair, known locally as "Pierce-the-Second of Despair".
An unseen voice delivered lines with utmost earnestness, "Why do I hear the screams of misplaced thesaurus?" The line, met with wild applause by an absent audience, leapt over into the next act.
Lightning flashed through the momentarily-persisting roof, illuminating a sign that read, "Caution: Existential Crisis Parking Zone Ahead". It was a message long unappreciated, now full of profound relevance.
And thus, a soliloquy spiraled into a comedy sketch; riddles were recited backward, and the ghost made an audible call on its cellphone. "I'm afraid we are past the appetizers of despair, Carla," it intoned over grim clouds of voicemail messages.
[Continue this play... or not?]