The monsters in this play do not come from inside the head of any of the characters. Neither are they reflections of the mental illness of any of the characters in the play.

​

Where do we think we meet the borders of a human, and a monster begins? What do we rule out of humanity as a concept, a construct, the ideal? What do we refuse to include into the construct called “a human”, even though our recent history suggests there's more to it: that humanity has a much darker account than we allow ourselves to admit? Why do we insist to maintain an image far too beautiful; beyond which point do we deny our alikeness and start calling humans “monsters”?

​

And on the borders of these constructs live the unpleasant, feared, lonely and the bad.

The set mustn't be naturalistic or realistic.

​

The monsters of this play are those who lurked under our beds or in our wardrobes when we were little and afraid of the dark; those who breathed in the muddy bottom of the lake waiting to pull us under the water when we were taking our first fumbling strokes learning to swim; those we would never meet on the street; those that could be called “unimaginably evil”, or capable of “indescribable horror”. Formless, shapeless, non-human, big, small, miraculous, shocking. The monsters cannot be humans in mummy outfits or actors in ancient masks or anything resemblant to such. They can be supernatural forces, but we have to see their shapes somehow. Perhaps they need to be executed with shadows, darkness, silhouettes, or costumes that have several actors inside. But we need to see them moving.