NEWS FROM PARADISE
(ZENOBIA & SINCLAIR).
A Colonial Drama
Author: Benjamín Gavarre
News from Paradise (Zenobia and Sinclair). © 2026 by BENJAMIN GAVARRE is licensed under CC BY-NC-ND 4.0
gavarreunam@gmail.com
SYNOPSIS
In the grand parlor of a Caribbean colonial mansion
in the mid-20th century, time seems to stand still beneath the crushing weight
of a sweltering heat that not even the strongest ceiling fan can dispel. There,
Zenobia—a haughty woman of ancestral roots and fierce island pride—and
Sinclair—a rigid American heir impeccably dressed in white linen—find
themselves trapped in an arranged marriage driven entirely by economic
convenience.
Through scenes that operate as recurring loops of
tension, the play dismantles the cleanliness and decorum of social etiquette.
While speaking aloud to maintain the bourgeois composure of the post-WWII era,
the audience becomes complicit in their rawest, most uncomfortable thoughts
through asides and inner monologues. What begins as a diplomatic negotiation
rapidly transforms into an ideological and animalistic duel: a head-on
collision between the Old World (Zenobia's history, myth, and bloodline) and the
New World (Sinclair's money, casinos, and expansionism).
Just as the arrogance of their power plays and
their unbridled attraction reach a boiling point, nature tears their masks
away. A real, unnamed hurricane violently breaches the parlor, forcing the
Amazon and the upstart to strip away their titles and become two vulnerable
bodies who, panicked by the end of the world, must confess their truths before
seeking refuge within the solid walls of the house.
DIRECTOR'S NOTE
This piece discards chronological time, operating
instead on the logic of suffocation and escalating desire. The space is
conceived as a transparent, claustrophobic cage where the physical environment
acts as another character. Aesthetically, the staging evokes the icy distance
and geometric alignment of an Edward Hopper painting, suddenly flooded by the
burning, volcanic, and visceral palette of Rufino Tamayo. A dark comedy about
the collapse of appearances and mutual domestication in the eye of the storm.
Important: The space is rigorously minimalist. There
is no actual glass breaking or physical debris. The natural phenomenon (the
hurricane) must be built entirely through sound design, lighting, and the sheer
physical exhaustion of the actors.
CHARACTERS
- ZENOBIA: Descendant of a colony on an imaginary
island. Of diverse roots, part mestiza, part aristocrat, very much an
Amazon (a mulatto Amazon). Haughty bearing, fierce gaze, and a volcanic
temperament hidden beneath etiquette and protocol.
- SINCLAIR: A foreigner, heir to an empire.
Impeccably dressed in white linen. His rigid Anglo-Saxon demeanor masks
unbridled instincts and a repressed passion on the verge of exploding.
SETTING
The immense parlor of a stately mansion. Soaring
ceilings with ceiling fans that spin lazily, utterly failing to defeat the
swelter. Heavy mahogany furniture. Upstage, the spatial suggestion of a terrace
overlooking the Caribbean Sea. The sky is a threatening, leaden gray. Absolute
scenic minimalism.
Scene 1: The Swelter and the Wind
(The light cuts out Sinclair and Zenobia on
opposite ends of a very long wicker sofa. They are completely motionless, like
wax statues. On the table sit two untouched mojitos, the ice melted but the
mint still resplendent).
ZENOBIA
(Traces her fingers over the sweating glass. She
speaks with a deep, firm voice, without looking at him) I've never seen rain
like this… And it usually rains here, it really does… but these last few days…
you know… it’s been out of control…
(Heavy silence. Sinclair, rigid, nods and takes a
long sip, dabbing his lips with a lace handkerchief).
ZENOBIA
The rain sometimes lets up… and when it stops… the
heat that follows is… a heat… that takes on a body, a visible heat… as if it
were a body made entirely of heat… such a heat… What are we to do with such
heat?
(Radical lighting shift. The parlor goes dark. A
zenithal spotlight isolates Sinclair. The rest of the world freezes in a
dreamlike blue. Sinclair stands up and paces frantically).
SINCLAIR
(Inner Monologue) What are we to do? What did she
mean by that? With *such heat*? Is it a veiled allusion to wanting a child?...
I find that indecent. The first thing these modern women want is to secure the
marriage while they are still in heat, to get married and have thousands of
children to ensure the union. They want to birth heirs before their time runs
out, lest the groom leaves and they remain all dressed up, flustered, married,
deflowered… and without descendants. Because… if there are no children, there
are no guarantees, no loans, no control over our investments, our properties,
our fortunes. Without children, there is no family honored by the continuity of
blood. Such heat, she said! The swelter that not even the strongest fan can
strip away, intense, suffocating, churning heat, it steals your breath... It
sticks to the skin, sticky and damp. The heat, the swelter that wrecks the
nerves and makes animals succumb; dogs lying on the floor, motionless,
exhausted, unable to wag a tail or bat an eyelid... they remain fixed and mute.
Like those ridiculous rag dolls the natives stick pins into… cheap
superstition, voodoo nonsense from people who reject science, absurd rituals
that civilization simply cannot tolerate. Asphyxiated dogs, exhausted men in hammocks,
fainting men, women with fans... Is she calling me a "dog"… between
the lines? An exhausted dog that doesn't even pant, doesn't even move? A rag
doll pinned to this sofa, taking nothing, giving nothing? Is she implying I am
like a noble dog, a white dog, pale, bloodless, a Yankee without fire? What
insolence! What arrogance. (Pause. Transition) And what Beauty, even with that
fierce bearing, as if defying the most intense heatwave of the century. What an
imposing woman! Look at her... she has the shoulders of a warrior, her skin
taut, powerful, command in her eyes, eyelids that never surrender, an absolute
Amazon... She terrifies me... and she fascinates me.
(The general lighting returns abruptly. Sinclair
stops pacing and snaps back to the sofa, recovering his stiff, prim posture. He
crosses his legs delicately).
SINCLAIR
Ah, yes. This heat is suffocating, isn't it? And it
is curious, but in an instant, the climate of the island can dramatically
change… without warning. At a certain hour of the day a storm falls upon us,
like a rehearsal for a Hurricane showing up unannounced, it pours, the sky
falls as they say, but it's not a metaphor, the sky actually falls… and in an
instant, everything is resolved, the heat returns, the air is so hot you can't
even breathe, suddenly the asphyxiating swelter arrives… and then, to top it all
off, in the early morning, the cold, the dampness that freezes your bones, the
wet, freezing night that can only be cured by… the heat of bodies?
(The lighting changes abruptly again, focusing
obsessively on Sinclair, who presses his hands against his thighs).
SINCLAIR
(Inner Monologue, sweating profusely) Ah, but what
am I doing? She will surely take it the wrong way... She will think I want to
rub my body against hers, to cure our fever… the cold, the damp cold of the
endless early mornings… Like the cold I rub my body against when those
uncontrollable desires hit me, where I hardly need an image to let go and
unload all this poison I carry in my belly... Leaving the sheets entirely
yellowed and with such an enormous amount of semen it seems I am a horse or a
bull and not a simple Anglo-Saxon boy lost hopelessly in the Tropic of Cancer…
(General lighting returns. Sinclair jolts, clears
his throat, and stares fixedly at Zenobia).
SINCLAIR
Ah… and on the sheets hanging on the coast, the
wind seems to draw choreography.
ZENOBIA
Are you trying to compose a poem? Wind in the
sheets?… the good thing is that in the tropics they dry quickly, sometimes not
so much, if there's humidity they never dry… But, damp or not so damp, they
must be sent to be washed with very hot water and plenty of bleach.
(The light shrinks to a beam isolating only
Zenobia's face. She glares with contempt into the void).
ZENOBIA
(Inner Monologue, stamping her foot with a dull
thud) The sheets hanging on the coast… Is he trying to tell me between the
lines that he likes his sheets washed by hand… just like the women at the port
do… Wash the sheets? By hand, is that a hint, is he insinuating he likes to be
served, to have his sheets washed, his shirts, his… trousers? Ah, he wouldn't
dare… I have always been a powerful woman educated to be served and now this
nobody wants to force me to perform menial tasks I could never bring myself to
do… No, I do not accept it… He better not even think about it!
(General lighting returns. The sound of the outside
wind roars louder, simulated through sound design).
SINCLAIR
Ah… and then when the hurricanes arrive, they wipe
out everything.
ZENOBIA
Of course, the hurricanes. Because hurricanes are
governed by no one, they are relentless. They obey no one.
SINCLAIR
Ah, yes, they are powerful, they clean house. They
drag ships, destroy groves, they are so potent that in a few hours their
presence dramatically changes tranquility and normal life. They do not ask
permission. They throw themselves upon the earth like an enormous beast in
heat.
(A sharp thud of wind is heard. Sinclair and
Zenobia stand up at the exact same time, rigid, staring at each other with a
violent and uncomfortable desire).
(QUICK LIGHT CUT. BLACKOUT).
Scene 2: The Fragment of Mamey and the Repeated
Sheets
(Action restarts. The light snaps back on over the
wicker sofa. Sinclair and Zenobia are slightly closer than in the previous
scene, but their postures remain rigid and aristocratic. Zenobia now holds a
plate on her lap with an open mamey sapote, red and pulpy).
ZENOBIA
(Inner Monologue, squeezing the mamey pulp,
staining her fingers with a thick, crimson juice) Such suffocating heat! Damp
and freezing early mornings? Bodies that warm up with bodies rubbing together!
What is this newcomer trying to insinuate? Does he dare to think of me as a
victim of the most vulgar desires? Or, worse still, wouldn't the fool dare to
think I am one of those frigid, easily frightened young ladies of high society?
Oh, he wouldn't dare… Poor wretch! If he knew that beneath this imported silk
runs blood of telluric roots cultivated by the crack of a whip and the sun… He
cannot imagine that my fiery deliriums nearly set the linen sheets ablaze in
the early mornings! He doesn't know that I have to bite the pillows to stop
myself from screaming when I please myself alone, imagining the most savage and
insatiable tempests!
(She discretely sucks her finger, licking the red
juice. General lighting returns).
ZENOBIA
Yes… and the swell on this island is completely
unpredictable… There are moments of subterranean calm, but in a second, without
warning, the sea simply roars and slaps us with absolute might.
(The light centers on Sinclair as he paces the
parlor neurotically, as if forgetting what he just said aloud).
SINCLAIR
(Inner Monologue. He loosens the knot of his silk
tie slightly) Ah… but what am I doing? I can't stop thinking about… I don't
know if I said something of what I was thinking, or if I have shown what I
feel… Surely she has noticed my uncontrollable desires, I don't want her to
suspect what I feel in my guts... I don't want my desires to manifest with such
overwhelming firmness… I must remain still, center myself, concentrate so as
not to become an executioner, my own executioner. Cross my legs, reflect no emotion,
speak of trivialities…
(General lighting returns. Sinclair clears his
throat, trying to recover his composure, staring at her).
SINCLAIR
Ah… and on the sheets, it's very noticeable when
the wind slips through.
ZENOBIA
(Monologue or aside) The wind slips through… That's
new… He speaks of the wind in the sheets… when they hang them… the women… the
ones at the port, I suppose… The maids are the ones who wash the sheets… they
use bar soap… the maids. (Transition: aloud, confident) I take care of washing
my own things, you know?… My intimates, my garments… My undergarments… I use a
soft soap… liquid… pink…
(In that instant, the general lighting flickers
subtly, as if the house's electricity suffered a dip from the swelter. Sinclair
jolts violently, brings a hand to his shirt collar, and swallows hard. His face
becomes suddenly damp. The image of damp silk and pink soap has hit him to his
very core).
SINCLAIR
(Inner Monologue, breathing raggedly, rubbing his
temples in desperation) Liquid… pink? What is this smell of flowers and damp
skin that just flooded the room? My God, did she say it or am I fabricating it
in my head? My garments… her undergarments… brief, soaked in that foamy
substance… I can see her through the cracks in the wood, undressing under the
stream of water, scrubbing the silk against her firm thighs… I'm going crazy!
My chest tightens, my air escapes, the linen is squeezing my groin… I cannot hide
this fever, if I stand up she will notice this damn poison deforming my belly…
Concentrate, Sinclair, speak of the weather, of numbers, speak of ANY THING
that isn't part of her body! GOD!
(The light shrinks sharply and isolates Zenobia in
her corner again, ignoring his silent collapse).
ZENOBIA
(Inner Monologue, indignant, stamping her foot on
the wooden floor) But how stupid… “I use liquid soap, soft, pink” … Ah, surely
he has already awakened insane images of my naked, voluptuous body! I, who have
always been discreet and keep my intimacies in the deepest part of my… being.
He better not dare think of my undergarments, let it not even cross his mind to
see me almost naked, wearing only perfumed, clean, brief attire, cruelly
submitted to his sick whims! That will never happen. Who does this insolent
foreigner think he is!
(General lighting abruptly returns. The hum of the
fans mixes with a distant thunderclap).
SINCLAIR
(With a notably hoarser, altered voice, locking his
eyes on her cleavage) Ah… and then, when the real hurricanes arrive… They wipe
out everything in their path. Hurricanes, my dear Zenobia, are governed by no
one.
ZENOBIA
Of course not. Hurricanes tear off roofs, destroy
groves, drag ships. They are so powerful that in a few hours their presence
dramatically changes tranquility and normal life… They are the masters, or the
ones who command, when they are women they own the stage.
(Sinclair closes his eyes, squeezing them tight,
breathing raggedly. The light focuses again on his damp face).
Scene 3: The Batá Drum and the Red Earth
(Action restarts. The light snaps on. Sinclair and
Zenobia are standing, very close to one another, breathing raggedly. The air is
dense, almost solid. Zenithal lights close in on them, isolating their faces
from the rest of the parlor).
SINCLAIR
(Inner Monologue, sweating profusely) Again, the
damn metaphor. She is challenging me. Does she want me to be the master, the
owner of the room, to be as potent as a category maximum hurricane? Is she
demanding that I step over her refined manners and drag her without asking for
mercy? Could she be one of those women who despises romance and demands the
most bestial, absolute carnal treatment? Could she be one of those women who
wants to break the paradigm? Swap the roles? Change the rules of the game? Oh, my
God, frankly I don't just like that… it drives me crazy! I hope so! Let her
take me, let her be my owner, let her strangle me with those Amazon hands, let
us destroy each other, she my owner, I her master, both of us in the eye of the
hurricane; and let her drag me to the interior of the continent and turn me
into savage rain that floods the earth and can only be stopped by the high
mountains!
(An intense, general light returns. A muffled,
guttural, animal moan escapes Zenobia, loaded with a pleasure she cannot
contain. Both freeze, stunned, staring at each other).
ZENOBIA
(Fanning herself violently, trying to breathe) Oh!
Forgive me… it was nothing. I couldn't help it. It's just that I remembered…
There was a storm… Once...
SINCLAIR
(Leaning toward her, courteous, generous, breaking
the distance of etiquette, his voice hoarse with desire) I heard absolutely
nothing. But, to tell the truth, I like your boldness. And your grand,
passionate performance… without inhibitions.
(Suddenly, Sinclair reacts with terror and covers
his mouth with his hand. A spotlight for an aside falls on him).
SINCLAIR
(Inner Monologue, alarmed) Sinclair, what are you
saying? Bite your tongue, Sinclair!
(General lighting returns).
ZENOBIA
(With feigned haughtiness, sweeping him with her
gaze) I don't know what you are referring to, Sinclair. Speak clearly. What
performance?
(The light shifts to a violet and reddish
atmosphere over both. They speak with their eyes fixed on the void, as if
listening solely to the echo of their own demons).
SINCLAIR
(In his mind, devouring her with his gaze) She
wants me to possess her without asking permission, wants me to kiss her neck,
to take her head with sweetness and tangle my fingers in her hair passionately.
She wants me to take her little by little, wants to see me as a god
contemplating her from the heights while she stares at me in ecstasy, while she
takes my vibrating being between her hands and forces me to empty all this
contained fire, forcing me to succumb, to spill over, until nothing is left but
the thunder of the flesh.
ZENOBIA
(In her mind, opening her silk neckline slightly,
breathing very heavily) His heart is the drum of an Indian chief, it's the
drumroll of an infantry soldier in full combat! He is my lord, I am his
servant! We arrive together at the heights of heaven… No one governs here, we
are the masters.
(General lighting returns. The dialogues return to
"normality", but it is a broken normality, where they can barely hold
each other's gaze. A deep, prolonged thunderclap is heard in the distance. Both
startle).
SINCLAIR
It is the pressure of the sky. The atmosphere...
There are storms that wipe out everything in their path.
ZENOBIA
(With a smile that insinuates the beginning of a
sweet surrender) We are safe, dear Sinclair. One beside the other.
(The word "dear" hangs in the air like a
slap. Obsessive zenithal light on Sinclair).
SINCLAIR
(In his mind, letting himself be dragged by that
shared surrender) She called me "dear"… My white linen suit is
finally vulnerable. All this poison I have in my belly and her blood of a
fire-woman can be tamed; we can think this is going to work. The storms they
announce won't touch us. Everything is running smoothly.
(General lighting returns abruptly. The silence is
peaceful; the looks, welcoming and loaded with great promises. However, new
thunderclaps preceded by lightning flashes mark the arrival of difficult times.
On the mahogany table rests a bottle of pure cane aguardiente and two small
empty glasses sweating from the heat).
ZENOBIA
Let us toast to good times.
SINCLAIR
(Surrendered, but with a shadow of doubt from
nature's omens) To the bottom.
(QUICK LIGHT CUT. BLACKOUT ON STAGE).
Scene 4: The Duel of Fortunes and the Wind
(Action restarts. The light turns on abruptly. In
this scene, the physical distance is broken from the very first second.
Sinclair and Zenobia are sitting on the same wicker sofa, rigid but close
enough to hear each other's breathing. There are no drinks on the table: only
the naked swelter of the parlor).
SINCLAIR
Is something the matter, my dear…?
ZENOBIA
With me? No.
SINCLAIR
I... I notice you're distant. After our toast a
moment ago I thought...
ZENOBIA
I just don't understand how, at this stage of
civilization, arranged marriages still exist. Tell me, if in the end it turns
out we are not compatible in this damned paradise, what then?
SINCLAIR
That is a grand question... What if we are not
compatible?
ZENOBIA
We always have the luxury of saying NO.
SINCLAIR
(Inner Monologue, devouring her with his gaze) That
is what she believes... But the attraction is there, stuck to the skin like
sweat. We are like those two legendary lovers destined to consume each other.
Not through adversity, nor through death. (General lighting returns) Until
death do us part.
ZENOBIA
What did you say?
SINCLAIR
Ah… it is what they say at weddings. The priest
says it. My father is extremely interested in merging these two great fortunes.
My mother as well. And your father, and your mother… you know, there are always
investors sniffing behind our surnames.
ZENOBIA
Ah… and is that what I am to you? An investment? A
customs business?
SINCLAIR
I did not mean that, please... I am not looking for
a fortune, Zenobia. My family is... let's say, more than solvent.
ZENOBIA
Really? Do you also have commercial ships in the
port?
SINCLAIR
Luxury yachts. And cargo ships.
ZENOBIA
And do you have properties in Abyssinia? Do you
have many islands? Like how many? Because this island where you are standing,
know that it is not yours. Do you have gold, do you have diamonds? Do you have
thousand-year-old palaces? Do your libraries hold five-thousand-year-old sacred
books?
SINCLAIR
(Uncomfortable, tugging at the collar of his
jacket) Books that are five thousand years old? What an exaggeration... No, we
have more... practical things. Casinos in the desert, a little Capitol of white
marble, an obelisk that scratches the sky, millions of dollars in secure
vaults... and an English grandfather with two thousand years of heritage.
ZENOBIA
(With a contemptuous, fierce laugh) Please! Your
English grandfather doesn't even speak to you anymore. And your sterling pounds
smell rancid, like the loss of old colonies, like fallen empires.
SINCLAIR
(Offended, losing his posture) Ah, make no mistake.
We have colonies... many islands. In fact, the neighboring island is ours, we
bought it last year. And other paradisiacal islands. We have modern cruise
ships crossing the entire Caribbean. Frankly, your island, as beautiful and
savage as it is, is not yet the tourist destination we wish to design...
ZENOBIA
(Standing up abruptly, majestic) And it never will
be! You cannot buy our history, Sinclair. You are a country of barbarians
without culture, a handful of upstarts without a past.
SINCLAIR
(Standing up as well, confronting her) We own the
future! My family possesses hundreds of rivers, thousands of mountain ranges...
We will own the moon if we set our minds to it! Once we sent a rocket and
claimed it, planted our flag. Money buys everything, Zenobia, even this soil
you walk on.
(The zenithal light turns a violent red. The
argument has ignited them physically. They look at each other panting, with a
mixture of colonial hatred and unbridled sexual desire making them tremble).
ZENOBIA
(With her voice broken by pride and attraction)
Pure lies... Pure boasting from a bloodless Yankee.
SINCLAIR
(Stepping close to her, breathing the vapor off her
neck) Bloodless? I am so sorry our parents force us into this... because I
swear, if it weren't an obligation, I would take you right now just to prove to
you who runs this paradise.
ZENOBIA
(Holding his gaze, defiant yet surrendered) This
house... is already included in my father's wedding gifts. It is ours. Let's go
to the bedroom, Sinclair... Let's see who the barbarian really is.
Scene 5: The Nameless Storm (The Direct Link)
(No light cut. The instant Sinclair reaches to take
her hand to go to the hallway, a colossal crash, purely sonic, strikes the
fiction of the terrace. The light flickers furiously, turning into a violent
gloom).
(The wind roars from the speakers with devastating force. The lighting design
simulates dizzying gusts sweeping the stage. The aristocratic refinement
vanishes entirely. Sinclair and Zenobia are physically shoved by the invisible
force of the wind. They struggle with their own bodies, clinging, without
overacting, to the sofa and the imaginary mahogany wall in desperation to avoid
falling).
SINCLAIR
(Screaming to overcome the roar of the sonic storm)
What is this? The radio said nothing! They only spoke of a mild storm!
ZENOBIA
(Clinging to his white linen, pantomiming being
drenched and dragged by the wind) The news always arrives late to the islands!
This is a hurricane, Sinclair!
SINCLAIR
We're going to die! Look at me, we're going to die!
Until death do us part!
ZENOBIA
Don't say stupid things! We must find shelter!
Let's go to the bathroom in the hall, it has solid walls and no windows!
SINCLAIR
(Dragging her, shielding her with his body as they
advance with extreme difficulty) It's massive! It must be a woman's name,
because it's powerful and shows up completely unexpected! The hurricane!
ZENOBIA
(Screaming as they practically crawl) No! The last
one that wiped out the port had a man's name! It must be a man, because it's
violent, brutish, and irrational!
(The sound design crescendos, indicating the eye of
the storm is approaching. However, Sinclair stops dead in the middle of the
stage, planting his feet, ignoring the fatal urgency).
SINCLAIR
(Looking into her eyes with pure panic, completely
halting their escape) Zenobia! But do you love me?!
ZENOBIA
(Startled by the absurd question amidst the chaos,
fighting the invisible wind) What are you saying?! The roof is tearing off!
Move!
SINCLAIR
Answer me! If this is our end, I refuse to die
classified as a damn customs transaction! Tell me!
ZENOBIA
You're insane, Sinclair! The house is sinking! This
is no time for existential crises!
SINCLAIR
(He clings to her and the floor, refusing to take a
single step) I'm not moving from here until you tell me! I want to know if all
this natural disaster is worth it! Tell me!
ZENOBIA
(Exasperated, trying to pull his dead weight) How
stubborn you are, white man! Maybe I do love you! Yes! Maybe!
SINCLAIR
"Maybe" is not enough for the merger of
two empires! I love you, Zenobia! I love you with an irrational fury, like this
damn nameless hurricane!
ZENOBIA
(Stopping as well, giving in to the same romantic
madness while the world collapses around them) You love me?! Me, a savage, a
pagan deity who despises your banks?!
SINCLAIR
To hell with the banks! To hell with the shipping
lines! I want your endless vegetation, I want your rituals, I want you!
ZENOBIA
Well, I love you too, damn it! I love your
arrogance and your tenacity, you insufferable Gringo!
SINCLAIR
(With illuminated eyes, as if the storm ceased to
exist) Truly?! Oh, Zenobia, this changes everything! We can sign contracts, do
business, we can...!
(CRACK! A massive sound effect, as if a colossal
beam crashed a meter away from them, jolts them out of their ecstasy).
ZENOBIA
(Pulling him by the arms with renewed terror) We'll
be crushed to death if you don't shut up and walk! To
the hallway! NOW!
(A blinding flash of lightning floods the stage.
The wind noise becomes dizzying as they both manage to cross the imaginary
threshold. The violent slam of a heavy wooden door closing behind them is
heard. The roar of the hurricane drops drastically, muffled by the stone walls,
leaving only the echo of their ragged breathing in the dark).
SINCLAIR
I just wanted to…
ZENOBIA
NOW!
(ABSOLUTE, IMMEDIATE BLACKOUT).
END
OF PLAY
*
