puppetmaster

every scene is like a minefield. the characters are slowly sweeping it for clues as to who put the malicious devices under the edge of the openly reasonable, while the Puppetmaster, battered and rusty as he is, observes from afar in the bunker of his mind. but the metaphysics of this particular minefield reminds us of the foulness of dramaturgy; there can be no backtracking of steps. every move forward and every push to the side constitutes a new pattern of disaster and maimed patches of ones soul.

the Puppetmaster can use his strings both to control, and to strangle himself.