"'Your sacred ghost before my sleeping eyes Appear'd, and often urg'd this painful enterprise. After long tossing on the Tyrrhene sea, My navy rides at anchor in the bay. But reach your hand, O parent shade, nor shun The dear embraces of your longing son!' He said; and falling tears his face bedew: Then thrice around his neck his arms he threw; And thrice the flitting shadow slipp'd away, Like winds, or empty dreams that fly the day. Now, in a secret vale, the Trojan sees A sep'rate grove, thro' which a gentle breeze Plays with a passing breath, and whispers thro' the trees; And, just before the confines of the wood, The gliding Lethe leads her silent flood." -Virgil: The Aeneid

:: {2023} :: appropriated footage, acrylics + pencil on very faulty inkjet prints :: ~Lḗthē is a sister series to https://teia.art/red_thread :: @annaxmalina :: annamalina.com