A man inhabits a suspended house. At first, he is caught in an alienated routine: seated at a dining table, distracted by his phone, surrounded by objects that smother rather than sustain him. Then a troubling tension breaks the torpor. Piece by piece, the house begins to fall apart. Furniture wakes into life, moving with unpredictable autonomy: a chair tries to break itself, a bed resists sleep, an armchair stirs restlessly. The house itself transforms—sometimes complicit, sometimes oppressive, always unstable.

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These shifts in the house mirror the protagonist’s own transformations. His identity bends and fractures in response—comic, fragile, hallucinatory. Aerial disciplines such as straps, hair suspension, and rope become direct channels through which the house and the character engage, merge, or resist one another. Scenography and body are inseparable, locked in a dialogue of adaptation.

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What emerges is a journey of metamorphosis: a being and a house moving through destruction into strange and unexpected beauty. In the end, the ruins are not empty. They pulse with possibility, carrying within them the fragile promise of renewal.