A love letter appears on the melting surface of an Italian ski resort; the frozen cry of a condemned soldier of the Habsburg Empire, inscribed from the depths of his agony.
There is a unique kind of horror that resides within pure stillness — an affect of negative awe that belongs to the unmoving/the unbreathing alone.
How do the middle generations, without even the luxury of self-willed wrongdoing to account for their condition, perceive their existential function in the world?
Here we come across a kind of postmodern solitude: both young and old receding into the air-tight enclosures of private apartments throughout the cosmopolis
What desire rests behind such recurring displays of suffocation and aerial poisoning, organized by strangers bound together only by a virtual pact (to leave the world one night)?
The guerilla fighter assimilates his tactics from the modes of spatiality (climates) he inhabits; his body in turn emanates its own climate, of terror.
even the characters they play are the abject nobodies that populate dead mythologies.