engleză
Two strangers killing time-or maybe time's killing them.
Tannic isn't really a play. It's what's left after the drama dies:
burned-out men talking sh*t, waiting for something or someone that won't show up.
Nothing happens. That's the point.
There's no arc. No catharsis. Just cigarettes, old rage, and the slow rot of memory.
It's a theater of rot. A conversation between two people who may or may not be real, trading insults like currency and clinging to the delusion that someone-anyone-will arrive to fix it all.
They won't.
If you're looking for plot, look elsewhere. If you want hope, go read a brochure.
Tannic is for those who've already run out of both-and still show up, out of spite.
If you've ever stared into the void of your own life and laughed out loud-this one's for you.
It's about what happens when nothing happens.
It's theater for people who hate theater.
It's a pointless play about nothing.
And that's exactly why it matters.
CAUSE THIS IS THE WORLD WE LIVE IN!
