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the baseless fabric of this vision

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Prospero's cave is a run-down warehouse. His staff is a plunger recently used for unblocking the toilet. The electrics are faulty; the rent is overdue. If he still has art to enchant, it's the magic of theatre itself, of words and the imagination they conjure into being. What will release him from this bare island is not an audience's good hands or gentle breath, but a pig truck blaring its horn at night in the middle of a street in New Burbage. His revels here are ended, but his story is about to begin again, though he doesn't know it yet. Old loves and enmities will be replayed, and the voice he hoped never to hear again will not be silent even in death. There will be struggle. There will be sacrifice. There will be tears, there will be the occasional fistfight. And in the end, there will be transformation.