Reading naked. Dressed only in words. Feeling on their skin the alternating rhythm that only the punctuation can give, when interpreting aloud masterpiece of Satyricon. Around a select few to listen. At the center of the space, three women, three artists. Dim light of lanterns vintage. Damask drapes and porcelain of other times. And them, adorned only by a string of pearls around her neck. With a book in hand.