"You don't want to read a half-dead play, and I don't want to write it."

I can't sleep, try a lot of ways.

At first I thought my dream had gone wrong.

The dream of "recreational efficiency" is sweet, but it is not sweet enough to ease the pain. The song of night and night is nothing but a thirst for bellies. So I'm in a state of soberness and slumber, and I'm not awake enough to see the direction, and I can't stay out of it. But I woke up, though for a moment. As my vortex says, "If I die yesterday, I'll have no regrets, but I see hope, like giving morphine to a dying man, like a buried man who sees the sun again, and I'll look straight into the sun, even if I blind my eyes!" I get it, I'm gonna burn my love like gasoline, and I want someone to get through my phone before the police get here, and I want one to know the price of life, and I even want another to call, and I prefer to fall in love with myself."

I have no culture, no knowledge, and I'm talking to a lot of theatrical greats on the stage, and I broke my hand, but then there was a desire. I think that is not enough, but my limited knowledge reserves are not enough to find answers to the questions. To me, many plays cannot be described as failures, but they cannot be celebrated in the name of the public.

Then the silence.

It's like we're being distracted by something else, we're becoming fighters, we're becoming weapons, we're becoming eunuchs, we're being slave masters, we're being blindfolded. There are those who want to say something and give up, and there are those who urge everyone to keep quiet.

Where am I to go? I know only that theatre is a dreamful form of art that expresses the demands of the creators in the most intuitive way, and that desire to talk will scratch your heart from time to time, as good as when love was first born in our breasts. Now it's the only way out of my life.

With regard to icebergs, the story tells a man who is more tragic than a rational man, who is a rational man opposed to ideological theory and who wants to live out of his grip, but instead of becoming a machine that works early and stays out of the world, he becomes an intellectual delusional patient. He may, of course, be in between, a seamless round-the-clock transition, swinging between face-to-face reality and avoidance. Eventually, he was driven crazy.

Objectively, this tragic role, which is not hopeless, has slipped into nihilism in a context where the attitude of people towards him and their own situation are not so bad, and what has led to the pessimism of the male master, which we want to think with the audience and the actors.

So we're going to make this play as a starting point for everything.

It can be sharp, it can cut the soul of an actor.

It could be simple, like wrapping up our reality.

It may be radical, but it's one and the same.

It also mocks itself and is a pistol pointing at itself.

We need people like this

I'm looking for an exit from life.

We should be allergic to mediocrity and cowardice.

We should be allergic.

I would despise us.

We'll be chosen.

The iceberg crew is all over it.