I return from the studio; it’s nearly six o’clock. I contemplate the last painting in this series, which remains half-finished in the studio’s silence. Suddenly, my mind empties, and I look around; rows of shoe shops in Darvazeh Dowlat, and shopkeepers standing next to motorcycles. It’s strange that all these repetitive images don’t feel repetitive to me. A man approaches from the front, carrying a Sangank bread in his arms. Five steps behind him, two steps to the right, another passerby holds a child as if they have descended from the sky, appearing before my eyes. Again, my mind becomes heavy with thought. I reflect on the image of the two men holding a shroud in the silence of the studio… Perhaps the reason these repetitive images don’t feel repetitive at all is just that: they’re like being swept away by a flood; a repetitive occurrence that each time evokes a different thought; another thought.