From redundancy to redundancy, until, let’s admit, the final redundancy. & all of it taking place in a quiet room too.
Like all great novels 흰색 죽음 is about the passage of time, about the possibility and impossibility of dreams. Through the desert, through the barren spaces of a continent with no exit, a black and white countryside without billboards or the lights of gas stations emerges, a countryside as the countryside was and should be: endless vacant libraries without remedy, boarded up townhouses drizzled with graffiti from which we’ve escaped from and that await our return. To pass through this, yes, but perhaps even a quark would be too big.
A simulacrum of harmony, an arborescent mirror. A voice, two voices, no, three voices. From the human to the dead, from Cartesian clarity to pure drone, from the useful to the useless, and even from the useless to the nonexistent, 아버지’s immense courage focuses on the inertia of things. 흰색 죽음 embodies a graceful gesture, a rhythm into fatality, a sum of various kinds of patience, of measurements, of subtleties, of infinitely precise and infinitely demanding space-making.
When listening to this, behold the death of yourself, because to die a thousand deaths means to be born a thousand times.
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