Does time-resin sting our eyes? Does desolation call forth our most solitary angels? Our loneliest most homesick angels? Desolation allows to become a vagrant, rooted in blessed nobody, divergently attuned to an original script. The wind writes in the air all the time, but no one deciphers the handwriting.

   Nostalgia is a death-trap, eating its own tail and leading nowhere. 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.

   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. Eternity is a blank slate disguised as real-time.