Maybe they have cannibalised themselves. This space, the stage, is no street or house, nor even a cupboard. It is a slit gouged out of something else, funny and tiresome. We get sick of these creatures and their movements, their self-indulgence and complacency. They fiddle with everything.
Men get tangled up in their own flies, women heave around.
They are ridiculous, yet never resemble the theatre of the absurd. Though they are non-people they have beauty, and their bodies and movements break out into magnificent arcs of dance from time to time. Aouni's movements can be horribly difficult. They chill with their instinctive desire to hurt. But his dancers go through every contortion with ease, suddenly flying into majestic arcs of movement, though there is nothing around them worth desiring.