I have no term of reference to illustrate the point in which the dimensions of time flare up in an impossible vertex before the future: the point in which the past and present can be visualised to be gathered totally in a complete sense.

The child seems to disappear from the stick supporting the old man's steps.

Falling in love surrenders to the daily practices of love like pain resounding softly and faintly, whether the wound is healed or the emotions of new pains overflowing.
The wealth of money freezes space in forms of rigid equilibriums. The mirrors of poverty have dimensions, which are more open than time itself.

Deep, thick fog follows the day as well as the night, with crooked shreds of sun, the hours and years accumulate, sometimes to conceal, more often than not, to deny.
A hut, a monument, a battlemented tower to protect the palace and crystal paths, the grey, asphalt ribbons and the paved roads, still alive, after the wars, when the ampulla of hatred has been emptied, and when the chalices of peace have been drained.

With the same usual ancient colour, in the shadow of emotions and in the solitude of memories loaded on the future. When cribs stretch like elastic and shepherds' outlines direct the sun at the shadows.

What is no more is simply infinitely small; what exists, for the individual, for the group, for the multitudes, for the spaces covered with branches and leaves, is again, infinitely small.
What we were twenty, forty or fifty years ago, does not give back to the present the emotional charges that push forward.
What has been, in spite of whether the real times have been consumed, becomes a self projection, like a graph that represents the occurrence, in the memory, in the written word, in the material signs, occupying the present.

In any graveyard of memories, our image of time fades, losing its colour until it returns the blackest non recollection. The measures of the past recall to the tendencies of the present the impossibility of a jump that has already been taken.

The shapes of events, which have been lived, become roused in the passing hours and in the space, which dilates forms and light itself.

Plans for war and peace, the laces of love and hate, the suffering of the weak and the dominance of the strong, the injustices of wealth and the endless requests of the poor, the generosity of the humble and the selfishness of idiots intertwine and come unstuck.

Whirls engraved on the abstract of ideological constructions and evanescent apriori rationalities. Contrasts nourished in the roots of passions and in the clear crystalline of sentiments like in the rainbow, after the storm.

Rhythms, cadences and pauses, offer meanings and sense to define the decipherable contours and confines of the memory.
The dwarfs swarm happily in the desert, shrouded in the solitude of their great, almost eternal present. Also the giants are mirrored like astonished and superfluous symbols, on the unequal and insecure limits of horizons.

And halfway, instincts and rationalities, reflect and echo the thrust of the new day, already heralded, which, like the arrow that goes beyond space, needs its empennage to balance the hours.