I
I am watching a play originally directed by myself being put on by a man I do not recognise in a theatre of confusing and in some ways impossible dimensions. When I try to concentrate on the face of an actor (delivering lines I may have written but which come over alien from unknown dream lungs) he or she turns away or fades into the scenery (a smear of colours before which these mobile props move). All of a sudden a line strikes me as so obviously wrong that I, the audience, feel I must tell the possessor of the misguided mouth that mangles my words, the way I saw them said. I stumble through empty stalls, fall short and shut my eyes as hands strike the auditorium's carpeted floor.
Blackness.
on