“That’s me, myself and I!”, we hear you cry!

Red velour draped over the rounded table plays host to this theatrical soirée, lit only by a candelabra of three blue candles that are burning flesh, and an ovarian light bulb that sways with every laboured breath. Only the long curtain of shared black hair traces any form of time.

Not everything with this pleasure scene is as it seems, for three staged exhibitionists holding stagnant poses wane. Frustration torments the air, for the slightest shift in balance among them will alter this electrically charged, increasingly precarious, nighttime show.

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