Jogging

The concrete arena, fundamentally an instrument for channeling the most vital of functions, mutates into a slumbering giant between "invasions" on days of home games. On the off days, half-wild dogs enter its sleepy atmosphere and settle in as parasites.
Though jogging is constantly suggested by red sweatpants, it is never actually shown. On the contrary, the adrenaline level seems to have been calibrated in the car beforehand: The drive to the location of the putative action is condensed into an improvisation on bizarre and boring subjects, about a stadium, asphalt and stray dogs.
Contemplation and denial run through this work...