Lacrimae

The stage affords a reprieve from the screenplay-in-head which for so long ended with a gun barrel in mouth or makeshift noose around neck. Those thoughts of visceral self destruction replaced by another thought process. That of dimlit corridors, ducking heads below doorways, a splash of bottled water over the back of the head like a nightclub baptism. Waiting. The longest wait ever known, just to get started on that sea of expectant faces out there with no idea what's going on, or how it really feels to be in control for a moment, to be feared, maybe even to be loved. Nothing but insects to be crushed under heel. Feeling of all-power is required to do this justice. If there wasn't a sincere belief in a state of supreme being then there would be no point, it would be impossible to give them enough to sate their hunger to be dominated.

A choice has been taken to surrender every night. A microscopic, homeopathic suicide - to empty out bloodied insides and let the lambs gaze in terror. This nightly self sacrifice to keep Mother Lacrimae at peace, a droplet of blood, of sweat, a pound of flesh torn off live on stage.

The lights dim in reverence. It begins. The speakers growl and finally explode like a beast awake from slumber. Twenty minutes pass without thought. At the end of it all, alas, still only human.