The uniqueness of each instant, unrepeatable, makes them a substance of infinite value. There is the trick of memory, but moments cannot be stored or reproduced, only evocatively and fictionally recreated in the imagination. Periodicity thus seems an illusion, a vain interpolation with a practical sense or as mere entertainment, but which contains the deception that events repeat themselves.

The turning of a lathe, like that of some handles or a planet, give the sensation of reiteration. But in the same way that with each turn that the mud makes on its axis, the hand deforms it, compresses it, textures it or raises it, changing it definitively, even if it returns to similar coordinates, any other turn, whether it be a watch or a pair of stars dancing an immeasurable calculated choreography, there are no moments that are repeated. Time advances inexorably allowing whims for perception, such as the ephemeral sensation of continuity. The clay that will later be ceramic will return to being dust, as it already was, but other hands will knead it, be they human or terrestrial tectonics itself. But that bowl that was, that you shared with your family for an always scarce and blessed time, will disappear evanescent like every moment that withers, fleeting like the eternal stars for us, in the form of a lump in the throat.

Top image: Varotari, AL, circa 1649. II Atlantean nile, geometry and astrology . Oil on canvas, Biblioteca Nazionale Marciana .