I like the word ‘restart’. It just washes away everything − no chronology, only loss and hope for retrieval of the lost. It rids you of the ontological necessity of being either alive or dead, movement is all that matters, even the directions of the movements do not matter. This may be called a ‘temporal animism’ (my term), the act or event of being mobile in time and living through it with the same intensity and passion every time one passes through it. This can only happen when one is able to live fully in a particular time zone; that is to say, grant a singularity to one's experiential − visceral, emotional and reflexive – journey of temporality. In such a scenario, nothing is general, no experience is precedented, no sorrow is sufferable, no passion is dispensable, no desire is superfluous. Everything feels unique and special, and carries the bounce and ebb of hope, and, at the same time, a lingering consciousness of loss. This singularity is both a curse as well as a blessing.

The woman is running out of time. Time is running out of woman. She has started with a deadly paradox of innocence and knowledge, and her beauty and her tragedy seem to overlap the vast spatio-temporal membranes that populate the domains of life and death. The membranes are like feeble threads that desperately try to pretend being walls. But, the woman places her finger on the membrane and it goes through.