A mineral and silent theater.
A nearly empty space, walls white as if they were sky before the light. In the
center, a wooden and iron pedestal supports the small golden sculpture, which
shines like an enclosed sun.
A warm, almost liquid spotlight falls on the sculpture.
Gradually, the illumination expands across the stage in orange and pink hues,
as if the day were being invented before our eyes.
A low, continuous hum, similar to an underground breathing.
Slowly, a crystalline sound overshadows it, like metallic drops falling on an
invisible surface.
The figure kneels before the sculpture.
It raises its empty hands high, as if holding an invisible sun.
The crystalline sound intensifies until it becomes almost a splinter.
At that moment, the light above the object expands, illuminating the entire stage
in intense white.
The glow suddenly ceases.
The stage returns to near-darkness.
The sculpture remains motionless, but now appears larger, denser, as if it has
absorbed something from the figure’s body.
The figure slowly disappears out of the scene.

Delirium
Where? It is far but illuminated by a warm, golden light reminiscent of sunset,
the colors gradually transition: orange, red, and then violet.
The distant sound of engines or mechanical movement accompanies the
venue.
Characters:
She: relaxed body, but restless gaze.
He: close, protective posture, but carrying a visible tension.
Action:
The couple sits on top of each other, close enough to touch, but without
constant contact.
The gestures are gentle: a hand gliding over the other’s arm, hair brushed away
from the face, a slight brush of shoulders.
Between them, however, there are silences that weigh heavily.
No dialogue.
She (looking at the horizon): “It’s beautiful… but it scares me.”
He (hesitates, takes a deep breath): “Not everything that ends is a loss.”
Silence.
He holds her hand, but she takes a moment to return the gesture.
Is the sunset a metaphor for the end of something or the beginning of a new
phase? The audience doesn’t know if the doubt concerns their love, a life
decision, or simply the fleeting nature of time—and this ambiguity keeps the
scene open.
The light slowly fades, leaving only the outline of their bodies.
They remain together, but the answer is never given.

The Abys
A space suspended between concrete and emptiness.
Metal and wood walls form a silent corner.
The color vibrates between lilac and copper—a trapped twilight.
The light rises from above, golden, liquid.
It reflects on the body of the reclining woman, which shines as if made of molten
gold.
Gradually, the tone cools—lilac, violet, deep blue.
The light seems to breathe alongside the body.
A low, continuous noise, reminiscent of the echo of subterranean breathing.
Intermittent silence.
A sound of metal being gently touched by wind or skin.
A woman lies on a hard surface.
Her body gleams, but heavy—something between rest and falling.
She tries to move her arm; the gesture is slow, almost mineral.
Her body bends and contracts, as if searching for an escape from its own body.
The ground becomes a wall, the wall becomes a horizon.
With each attempt, she moves closer to the limit—the abyss between body and
space.
The body falls without moving.
Gravity is internal.
In the abyss, rest is a contained scream.
Only the metallic echo of the gesture remains—suspended, unfinished.

Soul
In the center, a curved sculpture — a body without a body, just the gesture of
matter. From the ground, feet emerge, solid, motionless, as if they had
remained after someone’s departure.
The rest — torso, face, voice — is absence.
The light is pale, almost spiritual.
It doesn’t come from a single source, but from all directions.
As the scene progresses, the light pulses slightly, like breathing.
Shadow and brightness alternate over the curve of the sculpture.
A distant sound of wind.
Then, a low hum, which merges with the silence itself.
You can almost hear the sound of matter expanding.
Nothing moves, but everything seems about to move.
The sculpture breathes — an imperceptible breath runs along its curve.
The feet firmly on the ground suggest a hidden presence, a soul that still
inhabits the space.
In an instant, the light descends, and the sculpture’s outline seems to float.
The curve oscillates slightly, minimally, like an echo of the body that is no longer
there.
“I remain where I once was. My feet touch the ground, but my form is wind. The
soul is the interval between gesture and absence.”
Then, absolute darkness.

Mirage
The light vibrates as if the air were hot—there are subtle tremors, visual
distortions.
On the ground, a shallow puddle reflects the ceiling, but the reflection doesn’t
exactly match reality: it pulses.
A distant sound, like wind on sand.
Then, very faint voices—you can’t make out what they’re saying, but they seem
to recall something forgotten.
From the background, a figure emerges, walking slowly, but with each step, its
image doubles, detaches.
It’s as if there are two presences in the same body: one slightly delayed, a
visual echo.
The figure tries to touch its own shadow—or reflection—but the image recedes,
then merges again.
A raw beam descends from above, piercing the fog.
For a moment, everything seems solid: the ground, the body, the air.
As the figure approaches, the structure reflects the image—a landscape that is
not present.
The reflection is the mirage.
The figure tries to pass through the structure, but is repelled by an invisible
resistance.
It remains motionless, its face pressed against the glass.
It breathes.
The breath fogs the surface, and in this vapor a mark appears, a minimal proof
of reality.
The figure moves away.
The reflected landscape disappears.
On the ground, only the vapor slowly drips, forming a small patch of water.
The sound ceases.
The mirage is over, but something—imperceptible—remains.