The thematic potency and the overall success of Lighthouse Productions’ iteration of Anton Chekhov’s 'The Seagull' all came together in a great and terrible revelation.
Whether it’s a mild sniffle or full-blown tears, I always end up feeling a bit ridiculous about the whole ordeal when it’s over. I mean, it’s not real, is it? Why do I waste my grief on things that haven’t happened, that will never happen?