The leftovers of time are usually tone-deaf, nevertheless their unintentional melodies are capable of putting the finishing touches on our incidental presence in the complex process of existence. An inanimate nature, the tenaciousness of a simple three-note piano arpeggio – this is all what William Basinski needs to confront the reality of a dying world; through morsels of recaptured memories, he gives a voice to those spiritless creatures who inhabit our monochromatic self-assurance, mining the decorative mind poses we usually strike when we already know that nothing more remains to be done. Repetition, silence, a fragment of a phrase, then a distant mass of dull noise, like a microphone stuck in a gallery during the passage of cars; the events succeed to each other like in a subterranean contemplation where there are no loopholes to perpetual gratification. The naked frailty of these heavy-hearted musings brings us back of many frames, images of children playing in fields while still-young parents look at the camera waving their hands. This candid ingenuousness is no more – and it hurts.