A young man walks in the autumn down an impossibly quiet avenue. He swings his arms at his sides, but so slowly you'd never notice. His footsteps make no sound; they aren't footsteps at all. He is just walking.

The avenue unwinds itself from a spool and the only sound it makes is the old analog hiss of tape fast-forwarding. In this way it ribbons out toward the future of the young man walking down it. This is the old way of walking down the street.