3,5 I’m glad that mine is not the name of your unplaceable homesickness.That you don’t wish the road was a silk scarf you would spin on your waist to pull me close. That in the night the rosary of seconds tiptoes past you in an unbroken chain of quietness and I don’t send you vigils as a gift. & that at noon, when shadows are clipped to extinction by the zenith lanterns, you don't surmise that yours hid unobtrusively
While there are images and soundscapes redolent of Costa and Reygadas, Mütter develops cinema's language, returning us closer to childhood, revealing what is lost through maturity; our wonder and connection with the universe.
Ice-cream cone dusk candy-colored Malickian-clouds. Cricket sounds go up,cuts to: Cloudness!Woman sleeping as soundly as a fast asleep baby girl.Clouds goin' up, growin' up snail-slow as smoke being breathed out.Lost boy in the woods gazin' upon blurry tree tops.Fiery crackles+image of bleary coal-like chunk o'burnin'wood superimposed on her arm as Oriental cinematic tattoo.Faint sounds o'local fauna: Rest,Innocence.