Two assistants roll out a canvas scroll, artist arrives with two oil sticks, music blasts in, [action, 2min50sec], music turns to a gentle lull, artist drops oil sticks mid air, collapses, [death, 10sec], canvas is placed over the body.

End.

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Entropy.
The canvas was a mirage, the theatre and people had disappeared. During those three minutes existence whittled down to the ache in my muscles and the blasting sound which led my movements. Do not dare to stop moving. Do not stop. Time was stretching itself to play tricks on me. It suddenly contracted as the sound eased me into the end.

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Catharsis.
My inner landscape turned from something resembling the finished canvas to what I could only describe as the Sinemorets sea at sunrise. The place I call my summer home at the end of the world.
All sorts of anxieties that had been plaguing me seemed to have been disintegrated as my mind had rearranged itself into crystal clear structures of idea, thought, recognition and memory.
I sat back in a haze of Sartre’s Existence. Resonating, sheer, and so terribly simple.

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