during one of my many mandatory (and dreaded) weekend visits to my dads house, i remember one dream i had while trying to sleep in my room. it was so vivid and detailed that even to this day i hesitate to call it a dream, it felt like a memory from another life or a vision thrust upon me. in the dream, im sleeping in my room when the door opens, and out of the black void steps out a lion. a fully grown lion. i try to keep calm and pet it as it climbs on top of me - then promptly eats me. i think one of the worst parts about bad dreams is you can still feel things in them. pain, sensations, heartache. i still remember the feeling in the dream of the lions claws digging into my face.

those kinds of moments of my childhood have this staticky distance about them that i find increasingly disturbing as i get older. cinema has the ability to reach into the deepest parts of ourselves and dare us to pull out whatever we manage to grasp. Skinamarink perfectly captures the above feeling of that distance and sprints with it. it is entirely uninterested in anything resembling a conventional plot or structure; just pure streams of consciousness that flicker and fade in the dark as well as the light. a mind scrambling experience.