For a domestic theatre

The work would speak of an absence, A phantom without presence. Something is missing, yet all is the same, A mirage we are eager to claim.

The banquet of a feast now gone, Found years later, under the dawn.
A pistol found that never fired,
A story that has grown tired.
What is known is found to be mixed,
A disarray that has been fixed.
What it tells is now transformed,
Its narrative, reborn.

A lack of time – or not knowing what to await, Is a strange form of a fate. An illusion one might see,
A curtain call upon a mystery.
A motionless displacement, In a burrow of containment. A small piece of something that's gone, Around which the plot is drawn.

Here’s where the intrigue would unfold, Around the specter, a story to be told. Of fragmented reality, in search of sense, The object's role, in all its pretense.

Where [spectral] and [spectacular] come into play, manifests the spectracular, one might say.

For a domestic theatre

The work would speak of an absence, A phantom without presence. Something is missing, yet all is the same, A mirage we are eager to claim.

The banquet of a feast now gone, Found years later, under the dawn.
A pistol found that never fired,
A story that has grown tired.
What is known is found to be mixed,
A disarray that has been fixed.
What it tells is now transformed,
Its narrative, reborn.

A lack of time – or not knowing what to await, Is a strange form of a fate. An illusion one might see,
A curtain call upon a mystery.
A motionless displacement, In a burrow of containment. A small piece of something that's gone, Around which the plot is drawn.

Here’s where the intrigue would unfold, Around the specter, a story to be told. Of fragmented reality, in search of sense, The object's role, in all its pretense.

Where [spectral] and [spectacular] come into play, manifests the spectracular, one might say.

For a domestic theatre

The work would speak of an absence, A phantom without presence. Something is missing, yet all is the same, A mirage we are eager to claim.

The banquet of a feast now gone, Found years later, under the dawn.
A pistol found that never fired,
A story that has grown tired.
What is known is found to be mixed,
A disarray that has been fixed.
What it tells is now transformed,
Its narrative, reborn.

A lack of time – or not knowing what to await, Is a strange form of a fate. An illusion one might see,
A curtain call upon a mystery.
A motionless displacement, In a burrow of containment. A small piece of something that's gone, Around which the plot is drawn.

Here’s where the intrigue would unfold, Around the specter, a story to be told. Of fragmented reality, in search of sense, The object's role, in all its pretense.

Where [spectral] and [spectacular] come into play, manifests the spectracular, one might say.

For a domestic theatre

The work would speak of an absence, A phantom without presence. Something is missing, yet all is the same, A mirage we are eager to claim.

The banquet of a feast now gone, Found years later, under the dawn.
A pistol found that never fired,
A story that has grown tired.
What is known is found to be mixed,
A disarray that has been fixed.
What it tells is now transformed,
Its narrative, reborn.

A lack of time – or not knowing what to await, Is a strange form of a fate. An illusion one might see,
A curtain call upon a mystery.
A motionless displacement, In a burrow of containment. A small piece of something that's gone, Around which the plot is drawn.

Here’s where the intrigue would unfold, Around the specter, a story to be told. Of fragmented reality, in search of sense, The object's role, in all its pretense.

Where [spectral] and [spectacular] come into play, manifests the spectracular, one might say.

For a domestic theatre

The work would speak of an absence, A phantom without presence. Something is missing, yet all is the same, A mirage we are eager to claim.

The banquet of a feast now gone, Found years later, under the dawn.
A pistol found that never fired,
A story that has grown tired.
What is known is found to be mixed,
A disarray that has been fixed.
What it tells is now transformed,
Its narrative, reborn.

A lack of time – or not knowing what to await, Is a strange form of a fate. An illusion one might see,
A curtain call upon a mystery.
A motionless displacement, In a burrow of containment. A small piece of something that's gone, Around which the plot is drawn.

Here’s where the intrigue would unfold, Around the specter, a story to be told. Of fragmented reality, in search of sense, The object's role, in all its pretense.

Where [spectral] and [spectacular] come into play, manifests the spectracular, one might say.

For a domestic theatre

The work would speak of an absence, A phantom without presence. Something is missing, yet all is the same, A mirage we are eager to claim.

The banquet of a feast now gone, Found years later, under the dawn.
A pistol found that never fired,
A story that has grown tired.
What is known is found to be mixed,
A disarray that has been fixed.
What it tells is now transformed,
Its narrative, reborn.

A lack of time – or not knowing what to await, Is a strange form of a fate. An illusion one might see,
A curtain call upon a mystery.
A motionless displacement, In a burrow of containment. A small piece of something that's gone, Around which the plot is drawn.

Here’s where the intrigue would unfold, Around the specter, a story to be told. Of fragmented reality, in search of sense, The object's role, in all its pretense.

Where [spectral] and [spectacular] come into play, manifests the spectracular, one might say.

For a domestic theatre

The work would speak of an absence, A phantom without presence. Something is missing, yet all is the same, A mirage we are eager to claim.

The banquet of a feast now gone, Found years later, under the dawn.
A pistol found that never fired,
A story that has grown tired.
What is known is found to be mixed,
A disarray that has been fixed.
What it tells is now transformed,
Its narrative, reborn.

A lack of time – or not knowing what to await, Is a strange form of a fate. An illusion one might see,
A curtain call upon a mystery.
A motionless displacement, In a burrow of containment. A small piece of something that's gone, Around which the plot is drawn.

Here’s where the intrigue would unfold, Around the specter, a story to be told. Of fragmented reality, in search of sense, The object's role, in all its pretense.

Where [spectral] and [spectacular] come into play, manifests the spectracular, one might say.

For a domestic theatre

The work would speak of an absence, A phantom without presence. Something is missing, yet all is the same, A mirage we are eager to claim.

The banquet of a feast now gone, Found years later, under the dawn.
A pistol found that never fired,
A story that has grown tired.
What is known is found to be mixed,
A disarray that has been fixed.
What it tells is now transformed,
Its narrative, reborn.

A lack of time – or not knowing what to await, Is a strange form of a fate. An illusion one might see,
A curtain call upon a mystery.
A motionless displacement, In a burrow of containment. A small piece of something that's gone, Around which the plot is drawn.

Here’s where the intrigue would unfold, Around the specter, a story to be told. Of fragmented reality, in search of sense, The object's role, in all its pretense.

Where [spectral] and [spectacular] come into play, manifests the spectracular, one might say.

For a domestic theatre

The work would speak of an absence, A phantom without presence. Something is missing, yet all is the same, A mirage we are eager to claim.

The banquet of a feast now gone, Found years later, under the dawn.
A pistol found that never fired,
A story that has grown tired.
What is known is found to be mixed,
A disarray that has been fixed.
What it tells is now transformed,
Its narrative, reborn.

A lack of time – or not knowing what to await, Is a strange form of a fate. An illusion one might see,
A curtain call upon a mystery.
A motionless displacement, In a burrow of containment. A small piece of something that's gone, Around which the plot is drawn.

Here’s where the intrigue would unfold, Around the specter, a story to be told. Of fragmented reality, in search of sense, The object's role, in all its pretense.

Where [spectral] and [spectacular] come into play, manifests the spectracular, one might say.