Only when the questions become more important than the answers will the soluton emerge.

It's Friday, December 31, 1999, thirteen seconds to midnight. In thirteen ticks of the clock, a new millennium will dawn, fraught with the hopes and fears of humanity. The whole world counts down with bated breath... As the clock ticks, all eyes turn skyward, wondering whether the doomsayers were right in predicting the apocalypse. The second hands everywhere seem to slow to a solemn procession. As we round 10 seconds, at the top of the world, a seal slips off its ice floe and takes to the sea... ...8...7... A thousand Chinese clay soldiers guard the tomb of their long-dead master... Old lovers celebrate their fifieth anniversary with a passionate embrace. A newborn's tiny hand closes around his fathers' finger. The tectonic plates move the continents a further fraction of a fraction. All the sounds of the world, all the moments of history fuse into a few seconds ...3...2...1... Time seems to grind to a halt. But the true Mystery is that it never moves forward, only in circles.

The ancient bird hops down the Songlines that furrow the brow of the desert. He taps his beak along the path that only he can see clearly. Every click of the crooked bone raises a puff of dust, a few notes, a few memories. A shiver ruffles his sun-worn feathers. The joy of remembrance fills him with surprise, as always.

A thousand years from now, the sun sets for the billionth time on the Nevada desert. The Ancient Bird bears witness, standing on a single gnarled leg. As the warmpth of the day ebbs away, he turns his sand-scarred beak to the Ancient Mountain and croakes mischievously, "Do you remember, friend?" The wind sighs down the slopes, wispering a fond memory... when giants romed a land where birds were still magical and humans believed in destiny. The bird's unblinking eye hardens at the memory of injustice. But the Mountain's warm breath whispers a comforting word. Remember... Remember the glow of the day when a hundered souls fused to deposit a generous gift on the desert floor. A gift that bloomed into a cactus flower, the beauty of which touched the world. Remember the radiance of the flower blossoming in the desert. Remember the mystery,

Mystère is a celebration of life. From the genesis of the first life forms to the rise of human civilizations, the driving force has always been the vital spark of life, throbbing, struggling, reproducting, weaving through death and rebirth. From the infinitesimally microscopic to the infinitely vast, from the most majestic to the most terrifing, from the most fragile to the most powerful, all is the making of life. Mystère is a voyage to the very heart of life - where past, present and future merge, and all our emotions converge. Mystère is the enigma of time, the bearer of hopes and dreams but also of tradegy. It is above all the remembrance of time past, memories of life unfolding, following its course and ultimately surviving against all odds.

You may call it art. You may call it theatre. But it is called Mystère.