Anatomy of Hell

In places where people rub up against each other without ever meeting, where techno music pulsates and urges bodies on, they dance, they weave, they meld in a primordial hydra made up of male bodies.
In the abrupt desire for the other, they are men among themselves, they’re all each other needs. She is the girl, breathtakingly beautiful, left on the sidelines. She slits her wrists with a razor blade in the restroom. Two fine parallel lines that only join in the blood that surges forth. And that’s how this couple meets. She’ll pay him, the man who doesn’t like women, to look at her, as she says, “Where she can’t be looked at.” He tells her it will cost her plenty. She’ll pay him.
Four nights in a house in the middle of nowhere, perched on top of a cliff, and that we enter by steps bordered by four columns.
Four nights in which they will confront each other, she and he. For it’s in the gaze of men that the obscenity of women takes shape.
Four nights to face the unutterable, to explore the unshowable: that which is secret.
As in the Hebrew of Genesis where “secret” also means “nakedness,” literally: that which we must not see.
Because the nakedness of bodies pierces the nakedness of souls it reveals consciousness. Intimacy is the forbidden par excellence: that which leaves you dumbfounded.