Krapp sat at a real table and heard a real voice, albeit himself as a younger man. The man in "... but the clouds ..." sits at an invisible table unable to write. Everything he encounters is outside a circle of dim, suffused light. This gives the play a dreamlike quality, the circle of light becomes a kind of 'no place' where this daily ritual takes place. The only voice is the one inside his head. Even the roads take on an abstract quality; they are neither to nor from anywhere unlike the travel options in "Cascando", for example.