Plot

The world is an enduring war theatre. Perhaps because it’s a men’s world? When cast in such a set women try to play out all their means, even performing a sad joy division or bowing down like a poor little thing. This in spite of being a fierce partisan or a tactical guerrilla expert. The world is either a repeating making up of the same actions, as in the movements necessary for the make-up moment, every single day. Persisting like a waterproof mascara – but will it alike prove itself bulletproof too? I guess no, a mascara can only be more or less dramatic. Like in a recrudescing war against more natural habits, occurring at large in the world theatre.

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