Deep in meditation in his small, somewhat quaint, but still overstuffed with books study, he felt something was amiss. Their was something wriggling around in his mind, some niggling little thought-trail of something that he has forgotten, but by all rights, should be remembered.<br/><br/>The gentle flow of water tickled his ears with its melody. His study was home to a water clock (http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Water_clock), a by no means new invention, but one which he was quite fond of, and proud to have. Where did he acquire it, he wondered? Possibly, from one of the many craftsmen that called this place home. Clearly, he did not remember because it was of no consequence.<br/><br/>Then, suddenly, it hit him. "Ah! An hour. An hour!" He suddenly exclaimed as he stood from his seat. "I mustn't be late for the debut." He rushed off to his dressing chambers, which also doubled as a costume storage (for his own personal attire), and, with the assistant of a middle-aged woman--one of his five man personal staff--he was quick to get himself into costume.<br/><br/>Dressed as some strange wandering monk, he wore what seemed like a basket on his head. However, thin slices in the basket over the face allowed him some degree of visibility.  With plain, but heavy robes on, and wooden sandals, as well as several other religious paraphernalia, he was soon prepared, and on his way.<br/><br/>***<br/><br/>As he moved through the city, their were many who would stop, agape, at the strangely clad man. And it was to these good people that he would flourishingly bow to, and whom he'd inform that tonight was the night of a wondrous play at his theatre! "The Basket-headed Monk and The Viper's Daughter!" He would call it; one of his latest, some may later on say greatest, theatrical performances he has concocted.<br/><br/>***<br/><br/>His staff was eager and glad to see him arrive behind the curtains. Their were already a few guests coming into the theatre, mostly some of the upper crust, who were in the balcony seats (as befitting their station in life; above the rabble), and discussing amongst themselves the minutia of the day, or perhaps, the last play he had put on ("The Corpse Mask", a rather ghastly thing, by all accounts). Soon, that dozen or so would grow to be about five dozen. And that's not counting the poor who would climb onto buildings, holding to watch the performance from afar!<br/><br/>Their was much to do, much to do for them all, and the playwright and the players scurried and scampered about, performing their last minute preparations.