They are made in nobody's image. Heaven is empty, and the creatures on earth are left to their own devices. Man is his own perpetual task, an unfinishable work; man is the exhausting effort to produce himself. It is as if man had to be constantly saved from death, from the realm of things, from the grip of deadly objectification, reduction and profanation. As if one had to fight for one's immortality, to bring about one's resurrection, one's erection with words. As if one could still pray, one raises one's voice and directs it outside where there is no one. (Ewald Palmetshofer)
Is anyone there? With this question, the characters in Ewald Palmetshofer's play hope for the existence of a higher authority. But nobody answers them. And so they stand there and only form a community of the lost. And among them Clara, who, in search of herself and a sense, half loses her mind and with it even more. A dark and powerful and highly sensitive narrative about what is no more and perhaps never was.