Traumas float in an inherited memory like a duckling in the waters of the ancestors. The mallard wonders: Am I the one speaking, or is my mouth just an echo of an ancient scream? He moves between the past and the future, trapped between a legacy he does not know, drowning in the depths of a distorted memory and searching for a way out in the absence of oblivion. Is oblivion salvation, or just another form of loss? The show constitutes an experience without a face or features. Are we the ones swimming, or is the current pulling us towards an edge we did not choose?