His clocks were melting again — but so was my camera.
I arrived hoping to capture him, but Dalí had already bent the rules of time and logic. He painted the impossible with a calm precision, while I knelt beside him, camera warping in my hands.
“You’re not from here,” he said without looking up. I wasn’t sure if he meant the place or the century.
Either way, he was right.
Either way, he was right.