I’ve forgotten something, always, but then again, there is nothing to forget, because the past is detritus and shame. The present is striking like a whip sting on a pleasure boat. The present is the clueless shambles that we know and that we hate. We talk of future as if it will ever be the future, but it will just be the jangly present when it comes. It will be nothing different, it will just have more past baggage to carry as it checks in here. Someone will whisper that “this is the future” and we’ll just keep walking hearing those words like a memory of dream. We might furtively glance at our fellow men and women with upturned eyebrows pleading for smiles that always just come as pursed, controlled faces. Someone once told me that the ancients knew something we don’t. Was their present this toiled, filthy ache that we know? Was their present really the future?