Eli Hayes’s review published on Letterboxd:
And somewhere west of the phantom’s home remained the only shell of skin capable of remembering their wasteland. Burning a hole into the fabric of the past, the shell attempted to forget, but was met only with souvenirs of nostalgia that brought its efforts to a halt. Chilled by the frigid air, it wandered east across an expanse of drying land feeling the assault of the wind more powerfully than most days. Darkness crept out from beyond the clouds and stole away the residue of the light. Exhausted, the shell sunk into itself and fought the sounds and voices and vibrations that sought to keep it awake. Finally it slept and felt all things venomous at a distance, still, innocuous. Gentle light returned and awoke the shell, pulling it from a terror of the phantom back onto the hot, withered ground of the plain, its eyes adjusting to an awareness of the world.
Hear me, it said aloud, hear me from this withering existence as I, myself, cause its decay. I who have nothing but my memories. Jagged, aggressive, ever growing time is my enemy.
Kidnapped from a previous life, the shell had only known despair for what seemed like always, yet around the bend came a glove-like shape that took hold of its tired form. Life is meant to be replenished. Minds are elastic. No, no, no, it said to that angry wind. One plus one equals one. Please. Quietly, a bit of life returned, almost unnoticeably, but enough to produce a flash of a spark. Rain fell backward from the ground. Soil adjusted its position in the Earth. Time seemed to slow. Unworldly, the shell whispered; this is unworldly. Vitality? Where, here?
X marks this spot, in this place, in this universe where I remember. You, I remember you. Zinc squeezed between my toes, air flowing between my fingers, hair falling from its place, eyes pointed to the ground, legs shaking, bones cracking, teeth chattering: it is not the other that I remember, but you.