The scene is made up of different spaces: the first we see are those of the OvO, on the left Dorella's drums, on the right Pedretti's sound paraphernalia, both are invested by almost always red (sometimes blue) lights; towards the center, moved to the left, next to the battery, a long white sheet that invades both the backdrop and the pavement of the scene. Next to the latter, to the right, there is an opening that leads into another space where Rhuena Bracci sometimes gets lost, followed by a video camera in her forced solipsism, but not sought after: Arsura, tells us gruppo nanou, is “a device that lists a series of unravelings of solitary flesh, omitting the before and after of a story”. A Dantesque pain to stand in the void, embody an absence - the void that has been separating us for a year now - with that noise that should be there, instead of the deafening silence that has invested entire nations. OvO and nanou are certainly not going to tell us about it because everything has already happened and everything is quite dark – perhaps too much at times, so as to prevent us from fully capturing Rhuena Bracci's movements. His phantom-body, in the composition, finds itself excluded, it seems to observe and sometimes escape the two musicians, at other times detach from them. In brief moments the action comes together again, such as when the performer, slightly illuminating her gestures by positioning herself on the white sheet, standing on her back, falls, tunes in with the movement of her arm to the sound of Dorella's snare drum, and then falls again . While the noise abrasions fade and resume, Bracci seems to evoke a relearning to know the world, crawling, rubbing the floor with his hands covered by the long white dress that envelops him. However, there is no room for wide-open and surprised eyes like the ones we see in the new lives grappling with what remains of this world; this is hell and, suddenly, it seems to have become a night club – we are towards the end, OvO attack with the last track, Miasma. The lilting rhythm, the piano pouring its few notes in a continuous loop. As a tide rises and settles a gust of noise – imagine an old record that broadcasts hiss.