The distance from the original urban environment forces the sleeping quarter to recreate all the lost, missing elements of belonging. Calculatingly and spontaneously acquiring the necessary, a separate city continues to grow and expand the boundaries of its topography in length, width and height. It acquires information, loses its sense of scale, moves away and isolates itself from its progenitor, becoming independent and complete, creating its own mythology and laws of existence.
The units of measurement become changeable and malleable. The city as a spaceship. Returning from the forest, you wander in the cosmic abyss to your ship, marked with red lights, making it visible to other ships and separated from the background.
We found mountains right here, we decided to conquer them. And they became high and dangerous, because they conquer the high and dangerous, and now they need their own barrier lights to be visible and safe. From now on, these mountains belong to the space station.

Where is this place?
That's the thing, it's nowhere. You can't say it's located somewhere in a geographical sense. Inner Mongolia is not called that because it's inside Mongolia. It's inside the one who sees the void, although the word "inside" is completely inappropriate here. And it's not really Mongolia at all, that's just what people say. The stupidest thing would be to try to describe to you what it is. Take my word for it, even if just this once - it's very worthwhile to strive there your whole life. And there's nothing better in life than to end up there.
How do you see the void?
See yourself, said the baron. "Viktor Pelevin, "Chapaev and the Void"

The relationship with the world in the post-digital age is shifting to the study of one's own boundaries and withdrawal into internal emigration - pupation and gravitation towards the natural.
Photography here is like an act of appropriation, accepting the impossibility of expanses, their limitations, and materiality as an act of birth and preservation.
Bodily asceticism and uterine clots as an opposition to the freedom of the spirit and the тяга земного претворения. I was born in Shishkin's forest. I always brought different casts and fragments of the forest home - cones, leaves, twigs, but one day I brought a log. I placed it by the radiator to dry - and instantly the smell of rot and urine spread... Through my eyelashes, the paws of spruces, covered with snow, are visible. Cold, teeth chattering, hands covered with the skin of a plucked rooster waiting for his frying pan. It seems his name was Broth, his nipples sticking out in different directions, and I, in only pajama pants, wander through the forest, rush about in search of a way out, apparently the goblin confused me, and my grandmother did not warn me to swear furiously with good words so that he would let me go. In the distance I hear the highway. I try to follow its sounds, but I'm not very good with hearing (a bear stepped on my ear as a child), when suddenly I see a wolf, and here it's time to shit myself with fear, but I decided to fall into the snow and hide - maybe it will pass. But the wolf was not going to leave, he approached my body, sniffed it and pissed: it became warm and good: the sweet smell of urine, steam up, the light refracted in the evaporation and enveloped it with a blanket. That's how my conversion to a bear happened.
Into a wandering she-bear.

The temperature in the apartment hardly dropped overnight. The parquet floor from the third floor apartment was carefully selected, ordered, bought, brought and laid by the owners. It gave off more heat when it burned than a standard one. Valera breathed out a cloud of steam onto his aching fingers, kicked the bucket, listened with satisfaction as the water splashed, gradually returning to a state of rest, put the kettle on the coals, and opened the canned food. When Valera returned to the city, he knew that there would be little time.
He took tools, food, a sleeping bag, and matches with him. Nothing was needed. The city was not looted, not destroyed, animals did not walk the streets, only there was more snow than in his memories, and the lights did not work. Everything else was the same. Sometimes it seemed to him that he saw someone on the streets, but it was always the wind, picking up some plastic junk, or a play of light and shadow, or any other deceptive maneuver of a hopeful consciousness. There were no living people in the city, everyone left many years ago for safe areas. Those who tried to return to the city never came back and were quickly forgotten, and attempts to re-populate the old habitat gradually came to naught. The day before yesterday was more successful than the whole week spent in the city. Valera finally found a full-fledged instrument with working register switching keys, the bellows were intact, and the sound was quite satisfactory. For several years now, Valera has been running his fingers over the floors, jackets, gently tapping on his chest and ribs in his free minutes. At first, he did not pay attention to it, then he thought it was something nervous, but at some point, he realized that he was playing Handel's Sarabande. The very one that he had been learning for so long and painfully on the hated accordion, instead of walking, playing football, hiding in the basement from boring adults and drinking sour, incomprehensible beer from his throat. And now, many years after he, along with everyone who could move, left the city, never to return, he played this damn Sarabande day after day. At some point, he began to hear it as if he were really playing it. Then he felt it inside himself, not as sounds, but as what was real and unshowable in it. Sometimes it took root and strengthened itself inside him, displacing the little that was his life, he decided to return to the city. He took the accordion wrapped in warm clothes and went to the familiar, once unloved building, which now did not evoke any emotions in him. With difficulty, he opened the front door and walked across the floor, softened by dampness, to the hall where the exams were taken. He unfolded the accordion, went on stage, bowed to the emptiness, rubbed his palms over his graying stubble, sat down on the dented chair and played. He played without mistakes, but with poor dynamics. Four at most. He raised his eyes to the empty hall, in some places covered with some kind of damp mold. Inside Valera, nothing changed - the strange premonition of enlightenment and liberation was false. He carefully placed the accordion next to him.
He had no idea what to do next.