In the still light, a story is being written, an unknown story, a tale without a title. The setting seems to be frozen in time, a false appearance where everything could be fictional. These life hypotheses, fragments, are nothing but a distancing, a way of thinking about the inaccessible real. These untitled stories are like fictional edifices, a way of creating an alternative reality. A world which resembles our world, yet at the same time, would be nothing more than its hypothetical version, its mimesis.
Without beginning or end, these stories are silent, a slightly open door, through which we may enter. Frozen between expectation and the shift which will never come to be. They are nothing and everything all at once, prisoners of their own reality, of their inevitable impossibility. They will remain the fragments of a permanent fiction in a world incapable of seeing them exist.