Evening is a time of remembrance when memory wrests itself from the grip of light (i.e., the concept); truth abandons its deplorable readers so that their lives might be touched instead with beauty. To what future do we look when we are called by the voices of our own commands, driving us to the labor of hands we have never known—and who we have never been—throwing brick upon brick. Bab-el. But only caution, not language, is scattered “to the winds”. The future, we are told too, inexists. This “abyssal time of life” is an “adventure” that only the sea-faring explorers (and not the cartographers) could have known—it is they who could look across the ocean into the world’s end and dive into it full-speed-ahead. “Time is an arrow” shot from the bow of a blind huntsman who couldn’t give a damn where it might land. So there is a song that says “if at all God’s gaze falls upon us, it’s with a mischievous grin”. Perhaps the sky can smile … for those who care to look.
There are those who think the future is a mirror and when, like the small child who has not yet grasped the laws of optics, they reach toward the world contained therein, they find themselves barricaded in themselves by nothing more than an indifferent ray of light. The plane surface is infinite. Their own reflection can only laugh—a cruel, silent, unforgiving laughter amidst the rhythm of fists beating against the glass.