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Plot: Two circles move in not-quite unison; a camera tracks a car which, later, tracks a track, all forced contact and slow speed, velocity crying out for inertia like friendship, a time apart in the digital flow of perpetual motion to talk and listen and know, where history sits calmly and speaks slowly as a tangent-you have to pick precisely the right angle, as he picks precisely the right word, and stick with it, and, again, listen-to these online concentricities as it gradually reveals that what from one distance looked sturdy is, from in fact the same distance but different light, a mess in constant need of untangling (And so you see that Walter Benjamin's Angel has no choice but to turn his back to the future. ) and that in the face of this monumental facing up, literal project of lifetimes, there is absolutely nothing but love