In you build a home in my mind, atmospheric, chalk pastel strokes and neatly drafted objects swirl through the screen, rendering a dream-like world that is familiar yet alien. Conjuring and then quickly dissolving, toy cars, slides, spinning roundabouts, basketball hoops and spring riders dance across our field of vision in slight variations. The events are recognizable and yet also impossible. Sometimes it appears to be night-time, at others bright sunshine, often we are simply offered a contextless, dreamy space of appearance. Accompanying this memory game and nostalgic roll call of ephemera and feelings is an evocative electronic music soundtrack. In the manner of a melancholic nursery rhyme, it lends a certain pathos and heavy sensibility to the film. We hear field recordings and foley techniques over the plucky emotive composition, too; the sound of rusty swings squeaking, distant fireworks exploding, a car engine driving into the distance, a glass marble rolling across a game board or wooden floor, crickets chirping, children’s voices emanating from a playground. A repeating visual refrain reveals a night-time city scape, the windows glowing with homely yellow light, signs of human life escaping into the evening air. With these visual and sonic components combined, there is a powerful emotional texture to the work. The repetition and circulation of imagery perhaps serves to illustrate how memories disseminate in fractured, incomplete impressions in the mind. Yet this film reveals that, despite its fallibility, the mind is able to construct memory in such a way that paints lasting depictions of feelings and experiences that transcend normative understanding of duration and representation.