Life in the moment. Life in the moment. A scene without rehearsal. A body without measure. A head without reflection. I don't know the role I'm playing. I only know it's mine, immutable. I must guess what the play is about while already on stage. Unprepared for the honor of living, I can barely keep up with the rhythm the play demands. I improvise, even though improvisation repulses me. I stumble at every step in my ignorance of things. My way of being reeks of provincialism. My instincts are amateurish. The fear of the stage, explaining itself, is all the more humiliating. Mitigating circumstances seem cruel to me. It's impossible to take back the words and the reflexes, the counting of the stars unfinished, the character like a coat hastily buttoned – these are the deplorable effects of this urgency. If only I could practice on a Wednesday beforehand, or at least repeat a Thursday again! But Friday is already approaching with a script I don't know. Is this fair – I ask (with a hoarse voice because I couldn't even clear my throat backstage). It's an illusion to think this is just a quick rehearsal in temporary accommodations. No. Standing in the middle of the stage, I see how solid it is. I'm impressed by the precision of each prop. The revolving stage has been operating for a long time. Even the most distant nebulae have been lit up. Ah, I have no doubt that this is a premiere. And whatever I do will forever be transformed into what I have done. (Polish poet Wislawa Szymborska - translated by Regina Przybycien)