This is not a play about death.
This is not a play about a mother, a son, and a goldfish.
This is not a play about childhood memories.
This is not a play about a motorcyclist who arrived too late and, with the flap of a butterfly’s wings, caused an entirely new tornado.
This is not a play about resuscitating accident victims, although you might just learn how to do it.
This is not a play about what could have been and how beautiful it would have been if it had been.
This is not a play about fear.
This is not a play about how dangerous deer, antelopes, and other even-toed horned ungulates can be.
This is not a play about deities in white coats with a sense of duty to save humanity.

This is not a play about a boy playing with his mother’s rockets of salvation.
This is not a play about an apple pie on the table, around which those same people will never sit again.
This is not a play about the light at the end of the tunnel.
Or the mist rising from the river of forgetting.
Or the continuous, beeping sound that refuses to leave your ear.