'The Writer sits at a desk in the centre of the stage. It is an old stage. Large and grand and stolen straight from her childhood. The walls are red and they have all the grandeur of a womb. The Writer, herself, is one part of a whole that she carves out and turns over and over in her hands, like a precious stone, or a tumour. Will she ever tell which it is? The Writer is an illusion, and yet, this is she.' (Abstract)