driving the road called life you face numerous fleeting scenes. you pass by so quickly. no matter how hard you try to grasp them your velocity will turn them into mere impressions-abstractions-patches of colors-scribbly lines- or -what people call memories.
as you try and recall you realize that you’ve long lost the details. you wonder how it would have been like to have stopped there or somewhere else instead. but you can’t see the other angles of what already have passed by because the moment is already framed. but is it any less beautiful than the eternal, the permanent, the immortal?
death of each moments create byproducts in the form of fine dust. I open the door to the desert made out of dust. i throw my face into the sand heavily so i can feel the warmth again. that’s why I still look out the window, gleaning specks.