What you are about to see is not theater, It is the cultural necrophilia of a few obstinate. A work that was never released—nor did it need to be—, now recycled as a terminal spectacle for a public as naive as it is complicit. Welcome to the shabby wake of the absurd: a funeral with flowers, with music and with the pomp of our shamelessness. There is no premiere here, there is spoil. A shell of what could be and never will be. A liturgy without faith, a ritual to convince ourselves that we are still alive while everything falls apart. The theater is not dead: we are embalming it live, between nervous laughter and the smell of cheap formaldehyde.
The absent rules, what is missing is the only true thing. The work is presented as a failure turned into dogma: the luxury of having nothing to offer. Balance magnitude, mystique of impossibility. We do not deserve to dream is the confirmation that culture, in this country, it is not released: is buried. and you, sitting here, They are part of the funeral procession. Sons of bitches! Utah posh!. Thank you for paying admission to your own requiem.
