seahorse

Time, he thought, is not what it used to be. The measure of his words was certain, and his voice resonated with an old-world reassurance that seemed to have almost completely disappeared from the modern world. The gaze, not so well known, was out of fashion, as loose and baggy as could be imagined, not alert at all. It was like when you watched the old classic between Brazil vs England, the movements deliberate and slowed down, full of deep shadows, the passes accurate enough but pensive,from another era. 

The continued existence-should one say endurance-in what most human beings have lost all interest in, the lack of any relation to contemporary ways of living drew him to think of the sheer superficiality of so many of our gestures. A failure, of sorts, nothing grand enough to lead to a final answer, just the mild insights that came from reading other people's matching words. 

Time, he thought, would ultimately winnow out the secondary, until we got to the fundamental gestures, the position of the hands dark and mysterious, but true for all that, or radiant and fleeting like those far down in the interior caves of southern France, the core of what it was all about. It was too late to try and make sense of it all. What little he now understood could be scribbled in a small black notebook, no larger than his coat's inner pocket.