From this window comes a sound that amplifies the dimensions of my studio and questions the truthfulness of my watch. Fruit, supposedly in a casual rhythm, detaches from branches and falls on dry earth with hollow thuds that perfectly replace the tick-tock on my wrist. These noises, although not engraved on a clock’s quadrant, convince me completely. They repeat themselves constantly, but do not create a sense of habit. One could even say that, instead of normalizing every situation through the definition of an established present, these sounds cultivate a free play of coming into presence.