Creative Writing Captions: D11302
Drawn from Nature and as Large as Life: Thomas Frye's Fancy Heads
No one remembers who I am. I gaze at you. I clasp my book but I have not book learning. I am a poor player and strut and fret my hour upon the stage, in the pleasure gardens and theatres. My silk and fur and finery speak wealth but this wealth is not mine. What times are these? I remember fine ladies in silks and pearls, fine gentlemen powdered and wigged. But do they look at me, or do they see only the passing fashions? My nameless face endures to speak of London long ago.
I see you have seen my book. My book, which I have carried from the bazaar and under a palm I have written your secret. Sand dried with the ink. Distant scents held between the pages. Wrapped in a cloak of silk I have carried the book to you where I was not bid. Across the desert and the sea and into the alien city. I am the keeper of your secret, locked beyond gold clasps and language, tucked beneath my cloak, melting into the alleyways of your city. Words and worlds you wished to leave behind are here.
Man wearing turban, leaning on book