A bathroom down the hallway or under a town square, or an airport, or a club or a gas station. Crossed by a variegated and transitory humanity. It’s a crossing point, a waiting room, a meeting place for strangers, a dressing room where you can touch wood, hide, relieve yourself. It’s the devil’s den, an antichamber, a door before a farewell or a baptism of fire.

Seasons of life pass through a bedroom: visits of friends, memories, dreams, to visit as the last possible act of resistance. We see ourselves in ten, fifty, seventy years, like the child that, scared by the needle, still plays doctor. Like those who, after all, aren’t ever really ready to grow old, to die or to be alive.

A threshold between this world and the next, where souls take their leave of bodies, there stands our Death. The living fear her, escape her, deny her, look for her, dare her, invoke her. Death is certain, they say. Even with all those delays in delivery, accidents, clumsy attempts, blank firing and souls returned to the sender! What does Death know anyway, she who is immortal, of what dying is about?