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Rating: Slow progress, clotted melancholy. Long black-and-white tracking shot; dark, dense, oily ambient, brightened by sporadic spiritual grains. Heavy dark velvet drapes envelop the memories, distorting them. Immobility.
In the laziness of Sunday morning, leaning on the windowsill, we watch the rain pour down. The city's alleys are shrouded in fog; the light of some solitary streetlamp barely filters through. Immobility.
The white and ethereal light of Obmana on Rosenthal's black and textured backdrops. Ancient shadows.
Slowly paced synthesizers, thick mauve-colored electronic drones delve into our subconscious. Distorted memory, artificial Proustian madeleine, memories perhaps only imagined: my cat's purring, my grandfather's cigar, my footprints on fresh snow. Immobility.
Lying on the couch, I stare fixedly at the ceiling. In the half-sleep, I glimpse forgotten faces; they pass by one by one, all smiling at me enigmatically. They fade into misty curls of smoke as my mind, overcome by sleep, clouds over. Immobility.
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