A meaningless trip, an urgency of emptiness – like Byzantine iconoclastic fury – (in the history and geography of the characters), a wandering and a cyclical return to scenes and images as the pieces get lost among Otranto’s trampled mosaic tiles.
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Confused in ideas and even worse in realization: what’s supposed to be a shipwreck of the Image, a suspension of every dictatorship of reason, keeps rotating (confused but centered) around a narrative (!) guide that’s only thematically (pyromanism club) freed from perception conformity.