You think again of a theatre that would fit within your life. Your daughter’s early bedtime, the nightmares that have started to wake her in the dark hours. You think of the difficulty of it all, the coming and the going at the same time and place. Years ago, you began sketching hypotheses for imaginary performance when you couldn’t make it to the real thing and when the actual event so often left you wanting more. You think too of being at home and locking down. How you’ve found yourself turning to those more portable media—the drawing, the print, the photograph, the page—looking for ways these stills can cross back over into live time. You think of those who cannot cover the price at the door, those who cannot even get to the door, relegated offstage to the no-man’s-land between nation states, itinerants constantly on the move and longing to...

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