What do we lack in this beautiful sadness if not a past we never had?
Two women, two men and the entire world around them, as if reflected in the whitest, sun-bleached mirror.
Unconscious gestures draw a presence without reference, which needs no representation.
Right here right now, bodies are sketched out according to the boundless possibilities of inwardness.
It is a paradoxical present that looks like a past, as the sinking into memory is the dynamic through which the time of presence is intercepted.
In Melancholia memory is an operation that serves no purpose. The object of remembrance is something most ancient, impossible to repeat or to use.
There is no end but only means, which appear as radical interruptions of time: The chronological order of events sinks into oblivion.
The space of memory is self-forgetfulness, rejection of duty, abandonment to life in life. There is no self left, neither will nor intention. No option but being moved by the newly discovered void beyond the pleasure principle.