The colour of the wall is grey but layered ranges of greyness fortified in sediments. The sidewalk screams at it in its own colours that everlastingly change. The sidewalk likes to resemble to the colour of the wall and sometimes it doesn’t.

The wall continues until we see a small spark of a streetlight that is almost dying. The spark of the light confuses people, because it doesn’t look clear whether or not it is a streetlight or firefly. Hearing my play being flipped at a fast pace or sometimes at a slow pace just right over the wall, while walking along the wall, with my ear pushing against the wall, my eyes keep being fixated on the confusing light. The linearity of my play begins to be shuffled.

All sensorial parts of my body are extended and also torn apart because of them being at different purposes at the same time during the play.

And, the hole becomes a hope. A hope that is missing. A hope that needs a focus. A hope that desires to fall into consistent longing.

The wall begins to curve left-ward or right-ward. I wonder if the hole continues the curvilinearity of the wall, of the play, of the play-making.

The desires to put everyone’s fingers in the one hole is growing, and it’s felt by the play.

All of a sudden, collections of shouts and cries are gathering towards the hole. The wall feels the earthquake the sounds are creating. When they are finally gathered to fit into the hole and the hope, there are tons of unworn yet torn-out shoes scattered on the floor whose vibrant colours halt the sidewalk from a wanting to resemble to that of the wall.