One could not step twice into the same river, nature of the time forbids. And the one is not the same with every step, and the soil for these steps is different and if you are going far enough in this there is no certainty at all, reality collapses, vision faints... The tremble of this, the awe, the dread and the bliss – it's hidden so deep, so we barely feel it. Even the shores are changing, so what could we know about rivers? Yet, something stays still. Something which is not us, because we are the many, we are riverbanks. Maybe the most elusive thing is the most real one? Something like music, perhaps?
