Woodhead wakes up next to a pile of wood and refuses to acknowledge the passing of time. He's left with nothing but the isolation, temptation, and cries in the wilderness. Woodhead can't remain passive, although he has only one responsibility: to wait for the miracle. Waiting and waiting since ancient times. We would think that nothing happens, but in our passivity and during our constant waiting something always comes up over which we can trip, into which we can kick, in which can get tangled. There is always something that makes the desert, the wilderness and the solitude bearable. We don't know for how long he has been waiting. He slowly gives up, but not before telling a joke or reciting a final poem. However pigheaded, he is lovable, at the same time predictable and unpredictable, naive and intelligent, innocent and guilty; he talks and talks, sometimes incoherently, sometimes clearly, sometimes too much, sometimes too little. A final long monologue, which we don't know if it's heard or not. A puppet is talking. This is the miracle itself. But he remains a puppet that is carried by the waves of this already written story. Woodhead: pigheaded and nothing more, but in this case this is all that he can be.