Nostalgia is a death-trap, eating its own tail and leading nowhere. Nostalgia copulates with ghosts in dusty storage rooms and snakelike corridors. Now and again and again now never is nostalgia’s recipe and calling card. Nostalgia is the last picture show revived endlessly, a cinematic séance in rose-light and sepia. You whisper to nostalgia as you would a shy tender lover concealed in a shadowy niche. Nostalgia is the idea of things dismembered into snippets of intoxicating celluloid, strips dancing and teasing bewitchment and allure.

How to merge, marry, superimpose archival fragments onto your own presence and narrative in real-time? What is real-time? Was it real-time when I wrote real-time seconds ago, but now real-time is gone, and back again, as I am writing this (in real-time). Real-time never goes anywhere. It follows the irrefutable principle of orbit. Around and around but never going anywhere except around and around. It never fades or disappears. Real-time is the common nomenclature for eternity. Real-time is eternity’s signature and claim in digestible terms. Real-time is folk in its bones and surname. Seek deeper, dig deeper, and you will find eternity mirroring real-time, or hiding out in its domain. Eternity is a blank slate disguised as real-time.