Déjà vu

An elusive moment of time, ambiguous, suspended between the sensation of having already experienced it, true or not, turning without pity on itself, forward and then backward.
Calculating the rings, thrown like dice, just does not work.
Time, like a skein of wool, untangles itself and winds itself up into a ball, modifying its linear structure: now it hides both its ends, now one end, now the other, perhaps held back uselessly.
Finally time recreates itself backwards.

[…] You don't remember; another time besets
your memory; and a thread is wound.
I still hold an end of it; […]

E. Montale “The Shorewatcher's House”