Time in here is different. It doesn’t move in one direction, steadily and reliably – it skips ahead abruptly, drags its feet, wanders lost in circles, retraces its steps, dances and lurches around you, playful and threatening. The space prickles with premonition, rings with hallucination.

The invisible threads of a thousand narratives glimmer and hum in this darkened labyrinth, leading you down paths that divide and multiply. Behind closed doors, in empty rooms and half-light corridors, the past flickers and unspools.

The old Lethaby dreams again.

“Experience is only an imperfect preliminary to memory”
W. Lethaby, Scripts and Scraps

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