There is a specific quality in archival images. I read it as a kind of constant regret that the past was better than the present. The fact that the past is unattainable is enough to make it desirable. A kind of wish to experience life in a moment that no longer exists.
This logic reminds me of sunsets and their ethereal nature. During those moments in the evening, sadness forms itself in my being, and it has no specific source.
A melancholic moment that has no fixed point other than dying of the light.