Further, it was to be in a different format from that which can be experienced by readers at home, in front of a PC, on a smartphone or a tablet. With this, the user is reminded of an interaction that is not purely functional.

Others (like the game-interface) are oriented towards human cognition and cultural traditions. At these events, thousands have been, and will be, exposed to the workings of digital literature for the first time. This interaction can develop into a deep, continued engagement with the installation through the production of user-generated content.

The main difference is that we use web-based technologies and do not use a 3D environment. The tool proposes four lenses to critically reflect on the nature of a PD effort: These appear as icons, menus, command lines, signal sounds, speech control as well physically through buttons and other control units. The first point of emphasis concerns the context of Ink and how this staged people’s performative interactions. These interactions make it possible for people to affectively and ergodically engage with digital literature and the role of the library today.

For example, answers varied greatly when users were asked whether they regarded the poems as literature. We watched the videos and wrote summaries of the contents, focusing primarily on the performative, ergodic, and affective characteristics of the users’ experiences. These can change the users’ perception of the installation. On some occasions the user is seduced to interact without negotiating this relation – often through “gamification” and the use of play and narrative.

When the user squeezes harder, the text changes, tied to the intensity of the squeezing.

Assertion. Was I? In the night, a distant voice, sleep. A letter. In every day remnants of meaning slid along with me. Somewhere behind the eyes a careful lamp looks. Out in the brightness of day, I found a handful of glittering, glittering diamonds. When I said your name, all I heard was the quiet whisper through the sand. I try to draw luminous eyes in my sentences.

Can I be in this landscape?

Something glittered (glittered) between my fingers. Does that make sense? It was before you.

Was there really a fire somewhere? The screen is a world in itself: Where is your heart, where is your skin? On the bus I wrote a text message for you.

Do not seek shelter in the river of another language, but learn it. To speak was too much. Which night followed the day?

We have the same eyes. Not forget the rivers in the ears. When you touch me, when our bodies are quite close, we are part of each other. You reach out your eyes towards shores to come. You can be in this landscape. The rain, the wind between the leaves of trees, your lips, your lips, your lips. Was it the forests you came from? It was before you could disappear. Was I quiet? We thought of contexts of natural phenomena: The quivering of northern lights in your voice; glittering secrets inside the stones, inside the Earth, inside each other.

Why did you drag me down to the outermost mountains? I see stone, I see water, I see lumps of meat squirming in a light-light idyll. Everything is behind everything.

On a window pane. And we, melancholy sleepers, talking (chat, chat), waking, falling in crosses. At the time you were still a part of the slow, black beings of the mountains against the desperately fragile silence of the night.

In the morning, darkness seems to move closer to my skin and there is an accident flickering inside my eyes. I drank short gulps of the tea, ate dry crispbread, butter and sesame seeds. Out by the factories. You mustn’t disappear. Parts of your reality slid in between my lips. We stood in there and told stories and listened. I sailed in the pulsating, in the flowing dreams of sun. The clothes on my body hangs on my body. To swim in the flowing water like a foreign language, unaccustomed to the way it fits too tightly as if you were naked.

It was parts of your dreams that fell out between your lips.

Here the day is already far ahead of me. Now I am writing again on the quiet. We are the delicate, speaking distantly to the quiet. In the night conversations popped up. I wrote letters to you in my thoughts and followed the movements of the road along the coast and the sea, hesitatingly.

The water and everything that grows so strangely out of the blue.

I could feel the fragile truth. Now a restlessness in the body. Later in the darkness, I found diamonds in your eyes.

On the bus, I wrote you a text message. In a different autumn, I would have been embarrassed by sampling. You wrote a sentence on my skin to help me see through your eyes.