There’s something about this... I can't put my finger on it.
This is the kind of thing I would presume I would take a strong disliking to, but somehow I'm beguiled by it's looseness and eeriness in its paradoxical non-art approach.
Hauntological bastards abound.
The monologue at the end is special. Rupert Spira meets Beckett's The Unnamable meets Artaud... and some kind of Lovecraftian shadow lies beneath, outside.
Very interesting piece of work.