It seems as though our whole lives consist of brief moments. Texts must be brief because no one has the time to read, food must be frozen because no one has the time to go grocery shopping and cook, and the image that testifies to our existence must be posted immediately lest somebody else beat us to the punch. Indeed, time burns. It burns through our very existence, throughout which we want for nothing. Slowly climb to the summit of a mountain, rake the hotel’s vegetable garden, hold a book in your hands, embrace your lover for a long while and hurry not, for just one moment, hurry not. That is what it means to hold on to the time we let slip through our fingers. Nonsense, you say?