The climax is behind me. The connection is severed, passion suspended. Once again, noise and no signal. Almost the end. What was it, really? The question arises. A bit of regret, a bit of shame. Better not to tell anyone anything. Write it down, lock it away, and throw away the key. Drift far from the shore and toss it into the waves—let it sink to the bottom. Or let a fish swallow it.

Meanwhile, The Monster’s Voice in Gdańsk. It’s quite a challenge to keep a dam in one’s mind between what is being born and what is already written—supposedly finished, yet still fresh and just learning to stand on its own legs. But it’s doable. The mind can hold many dams.

By the way, the post-premiere noise clashes a bit with the silence that is meant to linger after the final chord (which is a distant echo of the first chord—this story neither truly ends nor begins, in a way). But that’s theatre. Maybe that’s its strength and its meaning: that it doesn’t spill over too much into life. What happens on stage is meant to act with full force, to grip the throat or whatever else—but then to let go.

I like theatre, and I still want more of it.