Berenice Abbott’s portrait of a magnetic field reminds me of fireworks beneath the eyelids.
My ur-text for a sleazy future of trashcan fires, black markets, station hijacking, and vicious game show hosts.
Lovers speak in monologue and monotone. They thrash and sulk in shadows.
In Yōko Ogawa’s fable, the residents of an unnamed island suffer the ritual disappearance of objects big and small. Flowers. Lemons. Perfume. Calendars.
Two games later, she said something to me that roughly translates as “you are still breathing but you have no strength.”
“You’re looking at the future: people translated as data.” This line from Max Headroom holds up thirty-five years later.
I cannot shake the airless world of this film that lives in the eerie twilight between calamity and silence.
One of the best films I’ve seen in years. I never thought wearing 3D glasses could be so heartbreaking.
Ghosts in the machine, glitches in the sublime, and rain-streaked neon. Watching Blade Runner 2049 felt like returning to church.
A manifesto written by Mayakovsky, Kamensky, and Burlluk on March 15, 1918.
