watching this essay on hiromix, i remember coming of age on the internet of the early 2000s, learning to make art, to express and document in a self created digital world felt so limitless in its possibilities. our space and our voices were our own, and the world felt so big.
"i loved without memory: is that not an epigraph to the book, which does not exist? i never had a memory for myself, but always for others."
masha ivashintsova
posting tonight from inside the lion's mouth.
the opening lines as translated by malcolm pasley is somehow more hypnotic:
"sunk deep in the night. As one sometimes sinks one’s head in meditation. thus utterly to be sunk in the night."
