Man is imprisoned in a coffin that history has written for him — a coffin made of books, made of philosophies, made of narratives inscribed before he was ever born. I am known for objecting. What if the whole story wasn't that? An Iranian version of the Last Supper, set in a space woven from allegory, in a world beyond reality — where no role had been assigned in advance. So anyone could be Christ. Anyone could be Judas. Anyone could be no one at all. This space stitched war, death, love, and hatred together into one unforgettable feast — a feast where no one was waiting for salvation, and no one knew who had written their role. I only set the table. The rest is decided by sleep, by history, and by you.