And stands Richmond; bare-footed all to itself. A Desmond - era Theatre queen, in denial of her mortality, stepping out of her robe. It sets down tamely. And surrenders itself to a quiet, black descend that always was; tucked away by the chaotic assertion of the daylight to some unheralded corner; and now unfurls heroically. Walter Dreyfuss sits on the cold marble window-pane; legs outstretched; watching the quiet resurrect itself. Like fanciful books where in the last chapter, a new purpose and determination must always find the Prince and the Princess. Walter, who has always hated these evenings where the Sheeps will be called Sheeps and Goats will be called Goats, watches Richmond in is backstage; unattended; undress.
He listens (quite effortlessly) to the groans that bounce off from the black quiet depths of Richmond. Like the sounds found deep within oceans; so primal and amorphous; that can only be seemed as groans (not groans actually, but resounding silences). He is reminded of a man on a beach, looking out, so moved by that uncertainty which radiates from along the horizon. The uncertainty which is so arousing and so palpable, that it pulsates around him. It envelopes him like an aura, which precedes him and succeeds him. A thought - almost cold to touch - perspires from within him. He can see his place; when all of his friends, his parents and all that is familiar to him; have gone away (the word 'death' unnerves him, so he resists it). He suddenly finds himself a stranger to everything, having to start life all over and introduce oneself to it, all over again. He has, infact to find a replacement for life itself. Something that holds a promise long enough; and holds it, till atlast,/ all till when it doesn't ________ (deliver). A salty burst of coarse,salty wind blows past him and through his aura (disturbing its vapours). He is suddenly no longer beatified. He is now only in the present.
"Come one, Walter, this day is waiting to get over" he is called.
A northern wind blows past through him and his second self.
TEXT by Vidur Nauriyal + IMAGES by Sophi Newell