We stare at mirrors as if ‘image’ was a weapon of self-defense. By night, I hide in actors’ dressing-rooms for a working class experience. By day, I face an old theatre being razed to the ground, making way for a parking lot. Graffitis have curtains, the nose cap of an umbrella arises from a mount of sand. Oh, Happy Days! No need to stage anything! The bulldozer is a dinosaur whose teeth and gracious neck swings by a EU flag. In the boxes, we await the audience. Sometimes, nobody comes. Before leaving, a starving actress puts up a wall. Her jumpsuit has a ‘ghostbusters’ sign in the back. Lost in a symbolic show of reality, I can only watch the world’s end because motors fail, actors don’t play and a reflecting labyrinth of life stories breaks through the glass of the Economic Eating Machine.