Perhaps it’s just that we sense an absence of future, because the present has become too overwhelming, so the future has become unimaginable. And without future, time feels like only an accumulation. An accumulation of months, days, natural disasters, television series, terrorist attacks, divorces, mass migrations, birthdays, photographs, sunrises. We haven't understood the exact way we are now experiencing time.
A family travels across the United States, the father documenting echoes of the Apache, the mother seeking to document the voices of migrant children, their children cementing their relationship in each other's proximity which the son, aged 10 and twice the age of the daughter, knows will likely not survive the trip; he can see his parents drift apart. The tales of the long dead echo the tales of the living, the tale of the couple's children is entwined with the tale of migrant children: history repeats itself, its variations in each cycle superficial. We are all the same and, yet, we are not. Migrant children die in the desert all too often. Others not quite as often. Which brings one to rage and sadness and hopelessness though, while they are still remembered, perhaps not all hope is lost for children who are lost in a world that is almost relentlessly harsh.