A made up woman was brought to the centre stage. Maybe she exists. Ephemeral. The minimum enough time to seem she exists. Illusive, she cries, laughs as all living or not living things, that cry and laugh. A lighted square reveals the minute portion of a fleeting thought. The blinds are closed. Remained the shadows. [Is all of this a love story?] We are nothing more than inevitable witnesses of the illusion. All is nothing. All is false. The roses are made of plastic. The steps are indecisive. The day is a floodlight. The beginning is after the end. The story is not story. It is a state of soul. [P.S. please don’t turn off the dream machine]