A man sits at a table in an otherwise empty room. His plate is empty. The table is empty, save for the infinite variety of condiments stacked and scattered upon it. Now he sees them. They become demanding of him, each with it's own noticeable gravity, competing and colliding with each other like matter in the center of the universe. The condiments demand from him, imposing, growing, squeezing the air from the room. They would deflate if only he could stand.
But he cannot. So he lifts his hand from his plate to his mouth, and takes a slow bite, dazed by the lights of the universe before him.
The Play ends here.
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