the passage of time::
the passage of weather::
rained in, snowed in, crept on, found pictures, broken glass, old statuettes, inherited lights, unwanted condensation, soaring books, winds and whistles, tapping fingers on armchair woods, varnished and worn. Life is erosion and fluidity.
the camera spends so much of its time acting as a ghost, smoothly discovering and uncovering the inner sactum of a warmed home during weather-rages, that when he finally see parts (never wholes) of humans, its as big to you as a fight scene in a film.
Ive never seen greyed out, shit weather captured so perfectly.