Snapshots of life unfold, continuously shifting from one point to another, how to fit into a moment, without borders to their limits, devoid of the tendency to fragment, their review chronologically fits into periods.
Snapshots in the mockery of life, frames on the wall of a great painter, inaccessible in terms of their reading, austerely fixed in time.
Snapshots of primary pieces constituting the earthly map, wanting and not wanting to find fertile ground to develop in the adulthood of time.
Snapshots in unending time, temperament that gives birth to the moment, that expends itself, granting identity and substance to the produced, to the novel.
Snapshots, when our lives tumble into the abyss of non-existence, the air will blow again, rekindling the fire that smolders.
It is not readiness that activates us, but what we truly wish to do at the moment the mind has already prepared beforehand.
Readiness is an illusion concealed in the flow of time.
