I remember that trapeze artist who fell at Teatro Zinzanni. I had to look away, difficult to do in that place. Everybody stopped. Everything stopped. Time stopped as they say, although in that case it would have to have started and all my evidence says something else. One of the preformers was wandering around the tables offering people tastes of ice soup for a laugh and when it happened she was staring directly into my eyes bent over the table lifting my spoon toward me. Dark liner. Glitter lids. Only the music kept going, a jazzy soundtrack to horrible pain. She never looked away. We locked. I still see those eyes. And I heard what she didn’t say. I looked away. I had to look away. The staff played it cool, professionals, and had people laughing and eating again fast. Tough job that. Break your neck so we break our sides. Breaks my heart. Start them off young I imagine so they metempsychosis. The soul of a trapeze artist in the body of a what? Our souls after we die. After before, no difference. When is Dignam’s soul?