The true picture of the past whizzes by. Only as a picture, which flashes its final farewell in the moment of its recognizability, is the past to be held fast.
Walter Benjamin “On the concept of history”
I picture time passing like a bad contact switch, which turns, randomly, the light on and off. We are immersed in this intermittent room where the chairs, the stage and the musical instruments appear and disappear in flashes of sense; the complete picture of a continuous hypothetical space is only in our minds; the real space is in fact fragmented.
Time is a bunch of threads all tied up together. Our precarious perception tools wrap the emptiness around with more hope than certainties. Most of the time, time is just about random jumps on a continuous waiting state, that we, composers, attempt to fill with notes.