Mist. Like white smoke it hovers over a pallid, bleak scene - a stone, rubble, something's moving; moaning music like spherical tones from a long gone memory that suddenly strikes the heartbeat only to just as suddenly drown back into the unseizable's dusk. Sigurdur Gudjónsson´s films breathe an oppressive silence, sough despair, pant fear. The tangled fragments of a dreamlike tale about desolation, self-inflicted failure, longing and denial, have convened to form a mystical requiem of shades.

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