The scene is a room that does not exist and never will, let’s not fall prey to illusions or false hopes there. Let’s just say it’s empty and w|h|i|t|d|e as the eye can see, to make it easier for the audience to image – although this can only be stated in a manner of speaking; if the place does not exist, there can neither be a room, an eye that can see, figuratively as well as literally speaking, nor an audience that can imagine anything. I would even go as far as saying that this is a matter that cannot be left to imagination, because this is the final frontier where imagination is bound to stop and give out under the pressure it is placed beneath. So let us maybe start anew: do not imagine that there is a place to imagine, no space for imagination, just take my word. In this – for lack of a better word – ‘place’ there is a FIGURE standing, shifting, facing one of the non-directions that suits it well. Upon further inspection, the FIGURE is clad in White.
THE FIGURE. In my hands I hold a piece of cloth which is not white.
It holds up the cloth for nobody to observe, wrapped round its bare hands.
THE FIGURE. Its contours rise sharply from the background of which I am part, in my hands it bursts into flame. You would expect my fingers to blister, my nails to crack, my skin to roll up, turn outwards at the newly created seams in a crust reminiscent of tar, shrinking like burnt paper. But they don’t.
The cloth burns bright red, with the colour of young blood, hurting no one’s eyes.
THE FIGURE. This is a blindfold not meant for the eye. I will proceed to tie it around my jaw.
The cloth is tied, the colour is rushing down the face in rivulets. The tongues are sealed as are the teeth, mother of pearl tied to the raw meat.