In a town made of marble we clamber through the dusty corpse of old industry, pass through a dark tunnel and emerge into the light, of a deep hole, the hole of the moon. A pit the size of a cathedral, with walls just as tall, and a mouth open to the heavens. A dark altar found at it’s centre, we’re not the first team to play here. It matters not, the rite is performed in earnest.

Altars for plinths, concrete walls and sculpted marble, cliffs climbed to build dwellings for the small folk, and a backdrop, for all shows need a set.

We are at the bottom of a very deep hole, it’s called Il Buco Della Luna, and yet when we tip our heads and stare, we see blue sky above, white clouds and the sun casting a light that reaches the ground. A portal, a hole, a space to play.

“And whatever sky’s above me,
Here’s to the heart for every fate.
Were’t the last drop in the well—
As I gasped upon the brink,
Ere my fainting spirit fell,
’Tis to thee that I would drink.”

 

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