Barefoot dude in a flannel shirt hanging off a building.
I'm somewhere outside of Lausanne, Switzerland, sitting on the grass, waiting for the show to begin. It's a play of sorts, a supposed one-room apartment seen from above, except it's really hanging perpendicular off a building that looks like a junior college. The silent protagonist is supended from wires, standing sideways on the side of the building, and the intended effect is that we are seeing him as if from above, except he's sidewqys. This is art.
"Je tombe," a voice intones, in a classically deep French voice, which makes it seem all the more profound.
"I'm falling. And I'm running, though I never leave my room."
Oh, OK, it's a millenial theme, but that's all right by me, because when I was 20, I had my mattress on the floor, too, and I read Sartre and Camus and considered myself an existentialist.
So I sit through the next hour, and I clap when it's done, not because it's good, but because I appreciate the youthful artiness of it all, and I appreciate that the protagonist was hanging off the drop edge of yonder during the whole performance.
Then I go to a disco in the Flon district and watch Swiss and Russian and Italian girls dance desperately to forget it all.