Greetings, ma petite. How long has it been since I wrote to you, dear friend. Things have changed since our last correspondence. I have been traveling through Yakutia for 6 days now, in search of those whom they call the "Scriptors". Some great thinkers, I have heard, have already left the laboratory. I explore frozen swamp areas near the Arctic Ocean, in the hope to gain some small amount of blue pollen grains on my odyssey.
May 20, 2068
My dear friend, countless days of searching lead me to a remote settlement known as Mirny. It is one of the coldest places inhabited on the planet. A few inhabitants provided me with necessary supplies and reassured me: my destination ought not to be far away. In the hope to report more to you soon...
May 27, 2068
My dear friend, I have arrived in a place that I couldn’t dare to imagine more undogmatic and deranged. My companions preferred not to interfere. And yet I have rarely felt so together. But one after the other. I find myself in a non-space. The cornerstone of this non- space is formed by nine depressions at different depths. All around extends a mixture of objects, which precisely create a spatial narrative structure. Grouped together, they act like temporary sculptures and tangibly underscore an obviously past existence.
The crown of a lemon tree forms the center. Four stools stand unharmed next to it. With the exception of this notch, a threatening climate dominates the rest of the scene. A woman, turned away from the tree, stares thoughtlessly into an ice-cold blazing inferno. Spoiled food, damaged protective helmets and gas masks lie freely, almost erratically distributed around. They seem as if they determine new relations between space & humans and question the usability of the space. While I inspect the place step by step, further objects catch my eye, which suggest human presence. But they do not so much convey a 'light at the end of the tunnel' as a blood-curdling past. An old family photo lies abandoned in the room, almost entirely covered by respiratory filters. Another niche is graced with an old sleeping bag as well as a kettle. A woman stares satisfied into nothingness. But her serenity seems artificial. I must admit, dear friend, that in general much of this place seems deformed rather than imitated.
Someone left their bag there. I wonder if there’s anything in it that would lead me to conclude anything about the inhabitants? Multiple wallets protrude out of it. It seems, as if they would nourish the room in some way.
Suddenly, the disaster seems to slowly dissolve. The inferno is getting smaller. I carefully step onto the ladder and begin the descent. I do not see the bottom. Suddenly I hear a huge bang and despite this I can't let go of the feeling that everything will be all right in the end.