Claire: The head that will become a skull is already empty. That is the sight of the mind so crowded to forget us.
Michel: Has she not sent for the prophet; been wisened by the cleric drink'd from the oracle's cup?
Claire: More truly than you know, she has. It's that corruption; her knowledge of it, and mine, that put it so unrestrained. What you see is a black painting of our creator; twisted, and twisted again. The flesh of her mind, it heats and rots; it twists and rots.
Michel: The blood on the door, then, is hers? And what of ours, which we share alike? Is ours spilled, or is what spilled a portent for me, to be me? Kill thy physician and thy fee bestow upon the foul disease; the emetic sigh; this deafening image...
Act Two, Scene iv:
Rosario: Saturn, hands colder than time, sinks his teeth into the flesh of his children. A black painting of malevolence and conflict. Cronos, hands older than ice, a mouth hot with the blood of his own - cast the flesh off, like the scraps of a feast
Act Three, Scene iv: Claire: "Orestes, here art thee?"
Michel: I'm in hell, I'm there still. Will Apollo please, reach his hand to me? Our hearts would swell, would rupture; should kill.
Rosario: Those I shall bear will live forever in the shadow of my death; on this side of the door. Those I shall bear; the sweet skin on their bones, the stain on my teeth. I am hungry, I grow hungry.
Claire: I came to you for the sore wealth of closure and we leave in that same debt betwixt. We stand; the missing hope of Holofernes, on this side of the door. And I can hear: "I am hungry, I grow hungry"
Michel: I struggle to breath, a half-submerged dog, a canceled-fate, a nothing-left. This is the price of my throat; I scream to the sun as a lion.Teksty umieszczone na naszej stronie są własnością wytwórni, wykonawców, osób mających do nich prawa.
