[I’d like the actor playing a line in the sand to reach like a root, stretch their neck like a flickering question mark, drink the hung cotton cloud painting the carton city the tint of absent light. I’d like the actress playing a knife to play hard to get, the actor playing the jugular to contract until the audience believes they’re invisible. The front stage should be dark, the hue of incandescent injuries. The child actor playing themself should grow immediately, their hair falling on stage, the light ricocheting off the sweat on their balding heads. It should blind the audience who’d start reaching for a missing white cane as the actors start drawing a goat or a myth with their bodies and dance as if muscles were language. Everyone should grind their teeth to the slow sound of regret, as the child actor turns into an ash urn, as the stretching neck bumps against zooming satellites. The knife falls to the ground, breaks the line in the sand and the jugular, the jugular undresses, lays on the cold wooden tiles lit like an unremembered
evening, naked like the breath of laughing bleeding dreams.]