0ddity
The true present is never sentimental. And when we arent creating it we see time in dilation, stretching before and receding behind us...Like wide horizons filled with illusions of eternity. I recall the images from a film, a film made of textures, velocity without words...A man crosses his desert, a vision of the desert neither tragic or uninhabited...under an amber sun, asia in an empty sky...but the desert is him, his body a silent page of his time. Time passes now with his knowledge of him..