There is no-one, who, in the awareness of his last chance to react, cannot place the true sense of himself in one single impression, everything, whole, from the very beginning; scattered pictures, to be re-assembled and re-mounted in credible sequences, throng, incoherently, without any apparent meaning and content on reaching the crossroads.

What is about to take place is bonded to the previous levels of daily life that is worn out and to be burnt. Tomorrow spins, today, onto the grid of components, which have already been covered.
Re-composition and harmonious reduction is entrusted to the dreams of the long nocturnal wakes. Yet this takes place in some more remote sphere, long before self-awareness.

History is already another sighting!
The infinitely small to be fastened and fixed in the infinite immensity of possible narrations. Yet all possible options are lost in the dimensions that reach beyond the limits.
And dark and undefined appears the point in which what has been and what is to be is summarized in one single moment.
Reflecting on the possibilities of a system of acquisitions to be perceived and using a concrete reconstruction of ourselves, Marc Bloch believes that "... independently of any possible application to practical conduct, history will have the right to claim its place among the forms of knowledge truly worthy of effort, only if it allows us a rational classification and progressive intelligibility, rather than simple enumeration, without connections and almost without limits".

But we know that intelligibilities, which develop on planes of progressive rationalities become diluted until they fade completely into the emotional mixtures and retained clear pleasures of the present. Images of time are unable to find sufficient impression to be returned to individual instincts, when moving in the present and pushing ahead.
Rational constructions of historiography, built to explain, understand, more often to justify or condemn, cannot withstand the blow of the tides, which advance and retreat in prey to the movement of spaces scanned by time.
Interpretation and hypothesis feed in the helicoidal pauses of movement. Graphs of probabilities and combinations flourish like roots climbing the abandoned walls of joys and suffered woes. Professional experts vanish at the first signs of something new, which appears long before the explosive assault of jumbled hordes of question marks and exclamation marks.
In the present facing the direction of the becoming that transforms and envelops development, the rigor of the method, erudite wisdom, objectivity of human science, geometric symmetry of value symbols and evaluations of direction fall apart.
Critical judgment cannot survive short seasons; everything melts during development like incandescent material that solidifies once again, in new forms and altered judgments.

But in the being of all of us there dwells the starting point of memory' creations, like at the bottom of a dreamlike representation; in every sense, as if reflected from our conscience, in the depths of feeling and passion, whistling like winds in sunny deserts and unexplored undergrowth.

Narrating time only when it is already complete or when it is happening is dissatisfying, as equally incomprehensible would appear he who concealed his face when addressing his travelling companion, to hide the distance of his own proximity to him.

Presence is always individual, a singular moment, active in the shattering of critical judgement, like the clips that piece fragments of volatile intuitions and days of awareness back together again.
Collectively, being there is utopia, caressed in fragments and divided in the depths of warm tonal moods, to be recomposed in the compulsive fascination of the clips.

For a Clips History. Precisely.