She / Lawrence Upton

Commentator: She is covered... In front of her, little bunches of paws; anxieties support her children, the desert and rocky hills around. In front of her a hill, destroyed.

She: I was dead, who translated, who was still free and cold.

Commentator: The accountants are in the old women.

She: Text survival problems. A lot of years now. Nice little bit of rubble. An absurd journey to shapelessness.

Others: Our voices, heard in occupation, appeared in the wild, chattering their names in several languages.

First unnamed: Writing at the checkpoint.

Second unnamed: Thanks for your notebooks.

She: I was there, who was there.

Second unnamed: You were full of children, artillery shells among them.

Commentator: Nothing can keep track.

First unnamed: Reinforced concrete positions -

Second unnamed: Covered by long tradition; her rough hand hides the major presses.

First unnamed: with invective and difficulty in reaching dialogue.

She: Distension of common sense -

He: invoked from the bottom. She reminds me of the future.

She: Overwhelmed with the sacred after a long wait amongst the ruins. Worse to come. Agricultural and linguistic occupation. Amongst the shacks, in an absurd, surrealist network.

Commentator: A gloomy siren preceded us. They showed us a strange thing destroyed inside by horror.

Third unnamed: We received a venue. It is now more beautiful and bigger.

Commentator: Prisoners of a long tradition. The following day, we set off to a bit of hysteria.

She: And there was now in prison. I was there.

Commentator: A bright full moon dominated the devil among them. They know that.

Second unnamed: From a list to a rhythm. Fast movement of strong words. Modern and bigger. Absurd debate grows naturally in facts. A dialogue relating to shapeless rubble. The accountants are part of a long queue.

First unnamed: As if debate is optional.

She: They fear you.

Commentator: An intensively bright full moon dominated his office. He recognised clear sky, a long wait at the end of the newspaper, a tiny room, university of anxieties.

She: This is an odd metonymy.

Commentator: The roadblocks.

Journalist: We had a meeting with her face, a muddy refugee message.

She: The accountants are paper.

Commentator: He received the evening -

Journalist: Passing through a landscape of other writers tortured by expenditure.

Fourth unnamed: For further information, please become Palestinian

Commentator: A long queue of people to come -

Journalist: A story of rubble I was referring to -

Commentator: being managed by illness, overwhelmed with an absurd title, received books.

Fifth unnamed: But I am told he appeared in the evening. Someone pointed out to us a horde of people on the future.

She: They spoke loudly, prisoners of deliverance.

Fifth unnamed: She lectures in my heart, content and mobile

Journalist: She is a worthwhile expenditure.

She: They fear you -

Commentator: They fear you will be recorded and miserable. But they can't control our voices.

Third unnamed: Voices heard no feedback.

Second unnamed: The accountants are part of a strange thing.

First unnamed: Little bunches of accountants are being forwarded to marketing.

She: This petition is virtually banned.

Fourth unnamed: Please add your name to remain in language. Do not reply to me. Please sign.

Commentator: A poster portraying a venue for a hearty welcome from networks.

She: They know how everyone hates.

Third unnamed: The accountants are replying. All together. The accountants are facing major cutbacks in an acclaimed poetry. They showed us the equivalent of years.

Journalist: We received a strange thing.

She: This is important!