It was sort of like being an actress for a night, reciting T.S. Eliot. I came unprepared in the mask area, but fully clothed in black, so a kind fellow dressed me up in red and purple feathers and make-up, to enhance my dramatic passage:
Beneath the bleeding hands we feel
The sharp compassion of the healer's art
Resolving the enigma of the fever chart.
Our only health is the disease
If we obey the dying nurse
Whose constant care is not to please
But to remind of our, and Adam's, curse
And that, to be resolved, our sickness must grow worse.
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