The Museum of Time is located on the border of the city. The museum seems almost forgotten. Those who enter here will get lost. No, not in the corridors or halls, but in the exhibited imagination of everything there is.
At the entrance, the viewer sees a three meter high hourglass in which the sand runs slowly. But those who come closer see a miniature desert with settlements and oasis. Bedouins migrate from oasis to oasis, minimized to the size of ants. Slowly the sand swallows them up, and where the sand falls into the lower part, dunes emerge. A beach in the morning light with mini parasols and tourists not much bigger than ants who sunbathe on small towels. Slowly the sand also swallows them up. Was it imagination?
In the next hall is an old-fashioned pendulum. The seconds tick off in a well-measured way. Every tick seems to become slower as the spectator comes closer. On the edge of t