All that remains is the illusion of the present.
Like a sudden ray of light.
Like a photograph.
The gaze can only look for an elsewhere, an utopia of the horizon.
The rhythm is that of the incessant past that slams on the worn jamb of memory.
Recordings of a time altered by the metallic shutter, and perhaps already irretrievably confused with the rubble kneaded by marine reflections.
A stratigraphy suspended in an eternal archeology of the present, deceptive to grasp or touch.
A fragment remains on the retina. A frame, maybe. A story.
Only the space between an arch and another.
For a while.
The Republic of Abkhazia lies on the eastern shore of the Black Sea, bounded by the snowy peaks of the northern caucasian mountains. It has a population of about 250.000 people, but almost no nation recognize this small state that declared its indipendency after a harsh war with Georgia in 1992-93.