An ancient park knows how to create myths. Its alleys remember steps that are no longer there, and its statues are frozen in poses that have long since lost their meaning. A shifting haze, woven from light and shadow, does not capture reality—it splits it. The very elusive glide turns a passerby into a ghostly stroke, foliage into a tremor of time. 

Myth robs things of their history and replaces it with a sign. Movement is the same thief. It erases faces, blurs the boundaries between figure and background, between “was” and “seems.” The park ceases to be simply a park: it becomes an idea of ​​elusion, a promise of eternal incompleteness.

In this grainy, slightly vibrating haze, there is not a single clear outline. Because myth is never transparent. It is always a tremor between sign and meaning. It is precisely this tremor that we call movement.