Blackened already, perhaps even rotten? I must see if my heart's stopped. Yes. It has! So I'm dead, and I know when I died. Strange, to be dead, and yet to be going about. But where am I? Are all these people dead, too? They look as if they'd risen from the sewers of the town, or as if they'd come from prison, poorhouse or lock hospital. They're workers of the night, suffering, groaning, cursing, quarrelling, torturing one another, dishonouring one another, envying one another, as if they possessed anything worthy of envy! The fire of sleep courses through their veins, their tongues cleave to their palates, grown dry through cursing; and then they put out the blaze with water, with fire-water, that engenders fresh thirst. With fire-water, that itself burns with a blue flame and consumes the soul like a prairie fire, that leaves nothing behind it but red sand. Set fire to it. Put it out again. Set fire to it. Put it out again! But what you can't burn up--unluckily--is the memory of what's past. How can that memory be burned to ashes?

Stranger Monologue from To Damascus

Rehearse Stranger's monologue