Unexpectedly I am there, with at least two possible ways to go, to the right or to the left. The horizon or the sky is the next limit to the world. I recognize what surrounds me, seen through the horizontal aperture of an unusual photographic format. All is familiar to me: a leafy plant or tree trunk, slightly peeling architecture, or a moss-covered statue. It is Eden, the primordial garden, irremediably lost—I know I recognize it. The machine, the photographic machine, the time machine, brings me back to the eyes of memory, with the present in vertiginous flight. There is a nostalgia for a