One in which the tin man loses his mind following too much Tramadol — the crux of which is a climax of such immense scale and braggadocio — where the audience experiences directly the fall of the tin man from grace and his eventual submission to the devil that lay within his, and all of our hearts. The devil of tin, of course, is oxidisation — and as such the tin man’s demise was not immediate despite the imminent crescendo of the music and the pomp of the orchestra. It is only slowly that the audience begins to notice the gradual creep of brown and ochre over his extremities, a patch on his torso, slowly, slowly diffusing like an algal bloom. Flakes begin to fall in numbers large enough to create a shimmering effect where the bright stage lights pass through the sad cloud, causing a glinting and spectral experience, his soul dying, evaporating — there — right there — for all to see.
On the other side of the stage, its reverse (for this stage is in fact 360 degrees, a circle divided in half by the curtains behind which one would usually assume is nothing but here there is another world) lies a scene the audience has seen a thousand times. The princess sleeps in sublime wonder, hands clasped over her chest protecting an innocence the moderns know to be impossible. Stage right, the handsome knight. Armour, yes, grand and silver; glinting points in the places that are required, exquisite rounded metalwork in others. A chin like an anvil, for surely many a blow has been halted by its adamantium lines so defined and inflexible. Eyes, yes, blue — but not important. The knight does not carry himself in his eyes but in his sword and his chin and his voice. The eyes look into a person to reveal their depth but here the audience knows of course that depth is a lie, that behind the eyes of the knight is indeed the tin man who nearby still flakes and crumbles and falls, simulacra even in death.
Yet when the knight speaks his voice shatters through the cloistering repetitive monologues of a thousand dull minds. The judgements they hide behind, the filters that confirm already what they know are shattered. He speaks to them directly, to something low in the brainstem, to something that does not know it is alive, to something that purely receives and responds without mediation. He speaks with force, with love, with honour and braveness and these are teleported into the minds of those dullards who are captured by them for he impresses them directly onto their baser instincts, thunderously obliterating the trivialities of neurosis, lightening through into the medula oblongata. What words does the knight speak? Does it matter? Do we know? Can we know? Where the knight is in the minds of those before him words do not dare tread. Refined words fear this place and scurry away, civility denies it an address and claims to indeed be itself the base of our minds. What greater secret to hide — every single mind — to hide what is so evident, to hide what is so powerful. Disgusting, delirious, dilatant, degenerate minds contorting and twisting to the semblance of cohesion all to deny that which truly is. Laughing and smiling and walking and working and all the time never looking backwards, down, inside to see what exactly that is, that prime existential fear, morbid and mortal.