Hello, I'm Emily Pan
& today I've got two things on my mind:

studio (experimental)

The Robot Writes Her Dying Words

A robot writes the contents of Virginia Woolf's suicide letter over and over again, until its own death.

Below is an excerpt of writing associated with (but produced separately from) this piece. (See the project "Words, Words, Words".)

In the scheme of things, there is little in the world that matters very much at all. Our being here is temporary— even our collective memories of Mozart and Shakespeare and Feynman will eventually be erased by the expansion of the sun or the impact of a comet or any other big astronomical event. The half-life of humanity has been clocked by geologists to be about 1,000 years, with our monumental sculptures last to go; and yet we still wake up in the mornings, picking at quarters to pay for our local brew coffees. We save money for small pleasures and tell stories to ourselves. Last week I brought a city friend to my suburban hometown, and we pulled off to the side of the road to watch a patch of fog on the trees. We compared childhoods, my friend taking photos of every bit of nature as I stood numb for all the boredom and nostalgia of returning to a place I’d left years ago.