Golden light on a wooden floor, three huge hay bales teetering on rafters above. A distant clock, a white teapot on the eternal samovar. Characters in beiges and browns and one woman animated in her gentle tones of blue. Space, time, interactions. Without action, belief means nothing... Something is wrong in this house, a man is haunted by the fact he may have wasted his life. Twilight, night, a storm. Grumpy old men and poetic lives; when one has no life, one makes do with dreams. Aspirations of complete beauty. Perpetual rain streaming at the window, the sound of relentless raindrops – what glorious rain-time drawn out, lives in suspension. I love the sound of Russian, hear it and feel the soul. These actors live and breathe their parts. Tenderness and desperation, futility and eternal hope. As the hay bales finally lower, my eyes are brimming. We will find rest, we will find rest, we will find rest.