Time is an unruly substance. It slips through cracks, gathers in silences, clings to the skin like ancient dust. It is within ruin that everything seems to reinvent itself.
We learn the rhythm of things that unravel and, in doing so, understand the absurdity of trying to remain whole. Time abandons its own precision and rests upon what still lives, as if it had given up on measuring itself.
What remains is a truce between the ephemeral and the eternal, a field where decay and birth become indistinguishable. Perhaps it is at this point, when everything feels uncertain, that time reveals itself: not as a line, but as a residue of existence.
