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The mime was trapped. It had been going well until the fifth movement, 'The Box'. He first noticed it in his hair: the wind had stopped. Then the sounds of the city street died, and he was alone. At first the onlookers thought he was incredible, but his silent panic scared them off... That was eight hours ago now. In the moonless night he couldn't even find his tears, stained grey with make-up. London had left him, only these walls (his own creation) stayed, to rub his back whilst he recycled stale air. His own routine had caught him in an impossible cage, a box that was shrinking through the hours. He felt the tide of panic rising again, it cramped his toes. He kicked. Kicking wasn't helping. “FUCK.” Fuck wasn't helping either. This street had been his father's stage just as it was his; “probably a heart attack” they'd told him. Seems they were wrong. He waited, he waited and prayed to wake up, but if he ever woke up Lord knows it wasn't in London. The coroner's report was vague, they couldn't tell what killed him first. Luckily, they had nobody to tell.
Trapped version: (a Lipogram in E)
This mimic is stuck. It's all good until his fifth act, 'Stuck in a Box'. Initially it's just his hair: any and all wind sharply drops. Soon, though, all city sounds vanish, totally cutting him off. At first, crowds think this mimic is brilliant, but soon his company runs off... That was six hours ago now. London abandons him, only walls (his own imagining) stay to rub his back. His own habit had caught him in an absurd jail, a box that's shrinking as clock ticks away. Now a rush of panic is rising again, and it cramps his hands. A kick. Kicking is of no avail. “FUCK.” Cursing, too, fails. This road was his dad's busking spot, and now it was his; “probably a tachycardia” his doctor said. Possibly his doctor was wrong. Waiting, waiting, praying for it all to finish, but it wouldn't, couldn't finish. His autopsy was ambiguous, no way to know what got to him first. Luckily, nobody would ask.