Adjacent to its antique source, as an orchard tree grows from seed to sapling amongst the ruin of its forefather, this bastard child O lies betwixt flowing river and urban core of this human sprawl, the many storied London which can tell tales of wealth, destruction, vanity and error. As a phoenix from the ember, arisen it is and now soars from cloudy grey heavens yet nests in concrete grey earth amid a flurry of tourist ants. The once bard honour’ed stage is to find a new place in history, as a quarter of the centenary a score and five placed it is on this electronic parchment, this intangible diary, this graven undertaking for the superstitious year of the two-thousand era.
That’s enough of that. I reckon that Shakespeare fella was getting paid by the word.
As you may have understood, the globe theatre, rebuilt just next to its former…
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