An old building in an old district in an old town houses some old magic. The oldest magic. The magic of story and dance and art. The magic of make-believe.

This old building was the dream of a young man. He believed, as do we all at some point in our lives, that he must be a youth again. To pretend again. To be someone else. This young man however, worked very hard to realize that dream, going to school and learning about angles and materials, about song and light, so that he could give his dream form, and substance. Life. He worked hard so he could make fantasy reality.

He gave up his dream. Money came along, after the building went up, and he followed it, but the dream did not need him any more. It was now the town’s.

When it opened, people spoke of it as though they knew it to the core. Dreams are familiar, after all. They spoke of its thundering acoustics, how every pin dropped could be heard. They dismayed at its small bathrooms, but delighted in its lights and the depth of its stage.

They still do.