The stage is the marketplace's scaffold. The boards flex every time a new comedian steps up. All the comedians were masks. Dream after dream will drop to death in the hay; there are always more where they came from. Nobody will remember them anyway. They will forget. Forget even when it's themselves that are going to laugh.
In the background the comedy cart crawls up the winding mountain path. Higher and higher. Through snow and sludge. Drawn by an old beast that's blind. The road has long been used. Bringing masks, bringing comedians.