Life is just a moment, but it is extended indefinitely
A crossing in its vanishing does not fade but remains, neither does it disappear but rather it spreads. It crosses disinterestedly and goes on as I cross a bridge to another bank. Then nothing remains apart from the trace which I cannot feel and endure simultaneously. A survival is a crossing; what takes place will be impressed on the pocket of age. When everything is gone, it is still there, for all time and forever. A crossing is not ephemeral, it is the permanence of immortality. When everything is gone, there still is something that will never be gone. There is a vestige in its departure and an arrival in its vestige. What I cannot describe, it will be stuck in corridors of memory, and when the memory is incinerated, there will be the fragrant smell of memories.
Leaving goes only so far, coming is delineated by its opposite. There is neither affiliation with this moment, nor does the moment itself affiliate to its own self either. The times do not know what is an appropriate time to live in. I am wondering: how does time calculate itself? Is it like water? It drinks itself when it is thirsty. And what of water: is it not thirsty to drink of itself? The moment makes its escape from time, just as a wanderer has no concern for how time passes. When the wander wanders, time flows in a continuous movement. Time has not thought of this answer. As time goes on, there emerge movements that are something apart, a considerable confusion.