It’s a tunnel. Or a room. I can see the outside, even as dark as the curtain. It is the air, and the sound of summer night. Here they are, punctual and stoic. Identities differ, subtly amplified by the costume design.
Night goes deeper. Movement slows down. At the tunnel exit, mutation starts. Bodies come out of their shell, inhaling the night. Curves, organic curves. The tentacle wakes up: intimacy grows, sensuality flows. The triangle loses its balance, accelerating desire. They can pass through the wall or the wall becomes invisible. Borders are just in your mind.
Mutation continues, evolving convergently. Seen but not exposed, they are aware of those eyes. Indeed we hear the engine. Red amplifies: a psychedelic moment or a trance? It’s a ritual, a sacrifice.
Black out. Memory is back. Tunnel gone, room disappeared. A massive, silent black. In a car, or a torchlight in your hand. Cautiously, they crawl into the black. One after another, they stop, pose, embracing the full darkness. Yes, when the Night starts, turn off the light.