Intrusiones takes that ordinary flip and builds on top of it. A landscape unfolds on the screen, accelerated, day sliding into night and back, weather shifting, time compressing. Every sound from outside the room becomes a written note that lands on the glass. A passing car. A voice. Rain. The notes don’t fade. They stay, accumulate.

There is no audio track. Each sound exists only as text, so you reconstruct the sound in your head from a few words rather than receiving it directly. As the notes pile up, they start to cover the landscape, your reflection, and each other. You lose the outside view the same way you lose your own space. Not because either was erased on purpose, because each intrusion quietly claimed a piece of the space for itself.

By the end, there’s no clear glass left, no landscape and no reflection either. Just the accumulated evidence of what it was, seeping through the barrier.