From time to time.

Man rejoices in small frozen images; in an ungrateful effort, doomed from the outset, to defy Time itself, he wishes to remain still forever. He doesn't want the future, he just wants to stick to the ephemerality of that perfect Moment, when the whole universe seems to conspire for a perfect composition. Finally!

Out of tantrum and by force, refusing to accept that all has become past. Strips himself of all ambition, because Time brings no more than sorrow and longing for that Moment, now gone. Melancholy that afflicts him with anticipation.

And so the Man stops; he too becomes a small frozen image. Delighted, he shall dedicate his whole existence to none but himself, absorbed in that Moment; and in such, he extinguishes himself, in that Moment.

But Time always comes. Cursed and crooked, without scruples or solidarity. And consumes the Man; it consumes the Moment. In the end, Man and Moment can no longer be distinguished, slaughtered and made into an amalgam, they become one. A shapeless, discolored mass, eternally crushed by Time, without mercy. It is the price to pay. A price Man will pay in pleasure and pride.

And then, he dies with a smile.

But only once in a while.