A way to make that relationship less contradictory: death and happiness. Even if here where you’ve arrived is not Comala, and besides, all its words also come from the lips of its dead inhabitants. This performance is a corridor through the desert of a world with dislocated time and a persistent premonition of its own end. With laments from Eliot. And some howls from Faulkner. And remnants of Rulfo. You have a license to enter, whether you’re the devil or the king of the Orient. But you’ll have to find the exit yourself, without help from religion or aliens. Not with a bang but with a whimper. And that’s how the world is going to end.