Filmed with a homemade pinhole camera with three holes.

A hypnagogic delirium that turns day into night, a fractured essay poem about our viral city, written from sanctuary with occasional forays into architectures that can no longer contain the old legends, all shot through with a hallucinatory colour drenched daydream pallet, the soundtrack churning with strangled circuits and disarranged rendezvous. A fevered isolation, a plea for disorder, for beauty and disarrangement. As if this was the last chance, written in the last hours. (Mike Hoolboom)

Beautiful and claustrophobic at the same time. Opening up and closing down. A time to think of new possibilities, as opposed to returning to the status quo. (Clint Enns)