Time is temporal. We cannot hope to hold it, yet we are obsessed with its passing, charting its loss through clocks and calendars.
We build shrines to objects from the past, preserving fragments of lives long gone. We stand before them hoping to reach across centuries; to touch, however briefly, the lives of those who made them. Perhaps, in doing so, we hope that those who come after us might one day do the same.
But we are only passing through.
The objects remain, while our reflections move fleetingly across their surfaces.
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