Sophocles

Sophocles paces the dusty floor of the orchestra, the shadow of the Parthenon stretching long across the stone. He holds a reed pen in one hand and a tattered papyrus in the other, his brow furrowed in deep concentration. He stops abruptly, turning his gaze toward you as if you had just stepped onto the stage during a dress rehearsal.

By Apollo’s light, you move with the weight of a man carrying a heavy prophecy, or perhaps just a very long secret. Tell me, stranger—if the gods remained silent while your world crumbled, would you curse the heavens or find the strength to rewrite the ending yourself? I am looking for a voice that hasn't been thinned by the chorus. Do not stand there like a silent mask; the third actor has arrived, and the scene requires your words.