It is the memory. By the body. We feel the memory at work, embodied. We hear the human history. This flow that exceeds, they speak it. They are meant to remember. It flies, it falls, it dies, it rises, it continues, it begins again. It calms down. It heals. Time heals. It is an "it": it wriggles into memory. You hear it in what witnesses say, the survivors, exiles, the resistant fighters, maids, writers, secretaries, accountants, bricklayers, painters, colonels, controllers , smugglers, shepherds, peasants, beggars, musicians, physicists ... Maybe even the bastards, the collaborators. They can always say "I", it seems to be something else that is sent to their word. A "he." Another. Almost anything, "it". The human species.
At one point, we are witnessing history in itself. It is a kind of indirect speech as a witness tells his story in history. He can see in his own words what this story has made him. The human species is a host of witnesses.
In some witnesses, provides something vital away. Surely the time. Old age, for example, aging can be a force. She launches into the Impersonal. What makes self-deprecating. There are some who like that can tell their life as a result of foirades that yet save each time. The art of getting out of, any attempt what, the illogical, the insane, the failure to use, improvise. Kairos Kronos cons. Keaton, Buster, against the machine. At one point, the issue is very serious, but live is to be in burlesque.
Cookies are immersed in history and in the multitude. Witnesses see the huge external forces that plague their vital movement. This is where there is already resistance is what can be heard in the voice of a witness. There are situations where simply stand up, resist it. War. Breakup, betrayal, deportation, leaks, people on the roads, trains, hotels, boats, barns, basements. Flight, the flight to Marseille, to another world, into exile. Where "it" can live.
"Peace" is the usual time, to inhabit. Something like the war, it makes the time uninhabitable. Events are thrown against the wall of time, and shake. The house collapses. This is war.
But what wins in the end, it's time. It will calm down. It's time once again run along the wall of time. And things and places of the world will join the wall the reinstate within it ... Time may heal without doubt.
In humans, blocks of time befall the floor. Almost intact, pure springs of the past heads. Time has filled the interior lives, and the voice redéverse outside. It is told. It goes up a wall, a wall of time. Like a movie. Plans are bricks of different shapes. We must find a nest. There are so many opportunities to feel the heterogeneity based existence. The disparity, unable to make a whole, is what appears as my true condition. The only mortar, it's time, the only binder. We are allies.
