Time is not like a stream, but like a huge evenly breathing reservoir. The waves of time monotonously pile on and recede, revealing a blurry landscape, the profile of a woman or a noble sphynx cat.The person in the interior is like a false memory, like a still life, like an ikebana. A vain attempt to remember a dream that is rapidly melting in consciousness. A skeleton, a ghost, an echo of a dream.A perspective, a landscape, like an eternal recurrence.But a recurrence with minor, but at the same time catastrophic changes, defects, damage. Time breathes: an eyehole in a window frosted forever.