The story is confusing but if one starts to explain, the audience just gets up and walks away. His mentor said, “Show, don’t tell.” And that applies to words as well. Words as well – water – spill – flood. Better get a bucket.
It seemed that a veritable vortex of negativity enveloped the characters. Mr. Powers thought he was the eye but he was, in fact, just another satellite swirling around a vacuum-like but otherwise empty center. Money and livelihood and pleasure and time daunted the players. Ephemera all. Half of them were sleeping.
Whether they were in relationships or just thought they perceived relationships with each other – well, back up – could they perceive the nature of their relations here from inside their own frames of reference? Because there were only one or two instances in which they occupied the same frame. Ever.
The audience rises to leave.
One remains to question: does much of a story even exist here? Much is Such a subjective term, she retorted. A story is here. In the past it fell under “the absurd.” These characters wander their hedonistic paths not so much in search of an author as they are seeking their own autonomy. Each story is as important as the next. Therefore, they think, their perceptions are accurate. Rashomon all over again. The visual evidence is open to interpretation.