Himself
Two circles move in not-quite unison; a camera tracks a car which, later, tracks a track, all forced contact and slow speed, velocity crying out for inertia like friendship, a time apart in the digital flow of perpetual motion to talk and listen and know, where history sits calmly and speaks slowly as a tangent-you have to pick precisely the right angle, as he picks precisely the right word, and stick with it, and, again, listen-to these online concentricities as it gradually reveals that what from one distance looked sturdy is, from in fact the same distance but different light, a mess in constant need of untangling (And so you see that Walter Benjamin's Angel has no choice but to turn his back to the future.) and that in the face of this monumental facing up, literal project of lifetimes, there is absolutely nothing but love.
