A theatre is a living being. If you listen closely, you can hear it breathing. You can see its eyes, watching you, critiquing you.

It is sunrise at a Boston, Massachusetts zoo. Auntie Kiki, long ago having overcome her fear of poop throwing apes, is sitting, chatting with Imani, a four year old gorilla, and her recently deceased keeper, Jim.

And now Auntie Kiki is at her desk, trying to figure out what to say. When she first got here, she used to laugh at her peers who had to do these, at least in her opinion, condescending pep talks. I mean, what can one say to a bunch of lost people who have died, but aren’t allowed any of the benefits of it?

Though I am unaware of all aspects of the goings on above us, I can tell you with absolute certainty that all the worker souls have a room of their own to rest in. Auntie Kiki very infrequently rests. Instead, she rewatches memories on television or paints on canvas.

“Who are you?” He asked, startled. “Where am I?” “I’m Auntie Kiki.” She gestured towards two chairs. “Why don’t we sit down and have a chat, Charles?”

Though it was without question a mercilessly cold January day, the plump Caucasian middle-aged woman didn’t seem to notice. Happily, she sat on the wall at the beach, looking out at the ocean, listening to the duet of the waves and the seagulls.