Manuela Moser's Last night, the mountain is a breathless game of part dream, part discourse; yearning and sardonic; halting and cascading. Its terrain is an Escheresque tapestry of grey skies, crushed velvet mountains, rescue helicopters, sex tapes and sad swimming pools. Full of notes and examples that frame and reframe experience, this pamphlet hones in on the ways we assimilate phenomena, cumulatively asking of what, if anything, we can be sure.
