You could almost present it in pictures, a sort of wild pathos, like mercury flowing among dark abstract shapes that would resolve in the body, or in organs without a body. Unacknowledged generations of absence and refusal, room after empty room, without stillness or progression, of cold moonlight through bare windows and hidden rage. It's rare that you get see even this much of it through the confusion of dialogues and mirrors and you want to take all of it inside leaving nothing behind, without understanding but driven into clear emotion, and turn it round and around until it belongs only to your pure possibility.