We look around and don't see or try not to see. If we do, we hardly believe it's possible. If we take a closer look, the misery is there. Nearby, within doors. Next door. In the street above. Far away, filtered through the screen, distorted by the narrative, real in the mutilated bodies, the undead, the living-dead.
Closer still, inside us.
If we look with a good, far-reaching lens, a lens that crosses time and space, we will recognize the eternity, the inevitability, the absurdity of it all.
And the human, all too human, profoundly inhuman nature of it all.
Also in the words, repeated, worn out, fragmented, worn out, re-told, worn out, and continued without rest. In search of the non-existent meaning, denied, repeatedly denied, of what we are, who, when, where, why - what for, after all.
This is Beckett's subject, this is the subject of the days we live in.
Hope? Residual, a particle in the universe. In the theater, perhaps, still, in spite of everything. 


Text by Samuel Beckett
Translation by Sílvia Brito
Staging Sílvia Brito
Cast André Laires, Carlos Feio, Eduarda Filipa and Rogério Boane