In the still light, a story is being written, an unknown story, a tale without a title. The setting seems frozen in time, like 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 buildings, ways of creating an alternative reality. A world that resembles the world, yet at the same time, would be nothing more than its hypothetical version, its mimesis.
Without beginning or end, they are silent, like a door slightly open through which we are led to enter. They are deaf, frozen between expectation and the shift that will never happen. They are nothing and everything 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.