Time is a jumble, past bleeding into present, future affecting the past, a closed loop and a chaotic state all at once. Beckett has lost the thread of his life, living now in a radio studio in the teens, now in a rathskellar in the the thirties, now driving a six foot tall eight year old to school in the fifties; moment to moment he could be in any or all of them.
He leaves recordings for himself, on massive reels of tape, which jump between eras unpredictably; he gets hopelessly lost trying to untangle them, unfortunately, but the act of ordering his thoughts to get them on tape is helpful, or so he hopes.
Beckett is always arriving, always late, always scrambling to hold on to the pieces of himself, a whirlwind only visible from some outside perspective neither he nor anyone he knows has access to. He is unreadable, incoherent, fractured, falling, now dying, now being born, on and on, time without end.