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Arthur Jafa, best known as a filmmaker and cinematographer, is possessed by this obsession, this care for missed, uncategorizable, atemporal images and their traces.

Turns out that “¡Ay!” is a narrative concept album about a roving, immaterial, atemporal consciousness that, upon becoming embodied, enters society in hopes of understanding its five Aristotelian senses.

“Atemporal” is more or less a bolero, disassembled and rebuilt in ways that can sound vintage or computer-tweaked, with plenty of clanky percussion; it’s wayward with a purpose.

She has written a memoir that mimics the atemporal quality of the episodes that give meaning to life.

Simon Murphy has boiled this down to a pair of slender, hymnal-like volumes whose effect is indescribably peculiar, like the radically atemporal reception of … a newsfeed?