Tannic: A pointless play about waiting.

A bench. A harmonica. 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!