Mr. Mime is bored. Mr. Mime thinks Lelina and Lachabela are stupid. Mr. Mime is feeling sleepy.
Mr. Mime couldn't care less about the dark cold day in which Yeats died.
Mr. Mime wants to go out and run and scream, but he has to zip it, he has to stick his lips and look through the third floor window wishing that time could run faster or slower or couldn't run at all.
Mr. Mime won't scream. He is a mime, any mime, the "x" mime, john doe mime, Mr. Mime is just a mime, but is my mime, my own personal mime.
Mr. Mime doesn't believe Yeats were a personification of an object. Mr. Mime doesn't believe in Yeats.
Mr. Mime is hating Auden.
Mr. Mime is an anonymous mime silently weeping for his dead phylosopher, trying to smile through the white makeup of his mute, beautiful, mime tears.