Your past is multiple and labyrinthine, it is multiple temporalities yours and those of others in successive and mirroring perspectives that are blended and infused into the world around you, into every object and place and the life of the city and the skies. No voice of the past but carries its echoes and refractions of old desires and imaginings and the layers of monuments that rose up over other monuments whose obsolete whisperings were never stilled. As if you could hold the whole thing in your hand and feel it as it was meant to be, like a curious glass ball, heavy and cool, mysteriously alive. And all of this inseparable from a future in abstract folds of misty time that recede to some vanishing point from which uncertain questing rays stream forth like headlights on a foggy road at dusk. And here, the fierce and powerless present where one streams into the other.