Silky time, swinging bell. A measure of the fluid moment, we can only feel the past. This is a magic moment, when time has already gone. After years or decades or centuries, when the moment is accidentially reconstructed, the appearance of the possibility goes back to an identical step number one. A familiar face, a once-felt sentiment, and incredibly, faded memory can be unsealed and skretched again flawlessly. It is like a distortion of time, a non-linear deception. It is an exploration of belief via a brutal smash into the tunnel of wealth, and as a chef of the day, you pick up the ingredients you would like to put together again. There is no limit of duration how long the sediment can be unweighted, like the flying clouds, an eternity.
In real life, there has been a moment when I recall the robotic future world of Spielburg's AI.
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