This is not about actors, nor about a theater in ashes, nor about a play without an audience, nor about a ghost actress, nor about the outline of a dead man, nor about a theater with a life of its own, nor about an actor who is also an actress, nor about a fake phone call, nor about a house with four walls that turns, nor about a psychotic clown, nor about one, two, three, four NN bodies tied up without choice, much less about a certain theater, with a certain fire, with a certain collapse, with a certain 2007 scratched in the mind of a certain ghost actress, of a certain faggot and of a certain clown, nor about the revelation of their secret that neither you, nor I, nor they know if it was like that or not.
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