Today, there’s more past than yesterday. But is there any less future?

There’s a 10,000-year clock, “The Clock of the Long Now,” being built in the mountains of West Texas, from “largely valueless materials.”

It’s comforting that there’s so much more past than present.

There’s a period known, in the history of the future, as the eternal now or the ever-present origin. Zero-dimensional.

The eternal now was followed by magic consciousness (one dimension), and then by mythic consciousness, which “knows time but not space” (two dimensions).

Once we know the future, the past is changed.

I don’t know all my great-grandparents’ names.

My mother can’t die until her hair turns gray.

Before we are born, we exist even less than after we die. We should tremble when we think of that time.

How long until we exist so little again?

The past happens fast.

If there was infinite past, the sky would be nothing but starlight. “Observed darkness and nonuniformity of night” make us finite.

There are few stars, moving farther apart.

The past is bright, but black and white. The future is dim but in color.

The past is still. The future trembles.

Yes & No

Driving, alone, at night, with music

Is safe. No visible stars.

A blood orange moon and then Mars.

Lying, in bed, alone, is safe.

Keep your hands clean,

You can touch your own face.

Keep the windows shut. No opening

For spirits: Influenza, evil eye,

Miasma, killer bee. Stray bullet. Flea.

Everything comes back normal.

The image of the aster,

It’s all in mental space.

How sublime the moon.

How sublime, the mossy ruins.

The fear and the fear itself.

That It Is Folly to Measure Truth & Error by Our Own Capacity

Distance is a kind of time, which means distance is also a kind of money.

A strange kind of distance. A kind of freedom, maybe.

I kind of feel like I’m brushing up against another layer of the multiverse. Language is fucked. Via some kind of space-time bug.

It’s almost hard to call it dystopian because there is a kind of utopia inside the dystopia.

I fear pure subjectivity is a kind of erasure. The people in power will use it against us.

Hate can feel like a kind of power.

I always thought it was weird when people would buy the same kind of dog after their dog died (illusion of continuity) but then we did that with our car?

Isn’t it kind of the point of culture to assuage our feeling needless and alone?

I just kind of noticed that my mirror image is twice as far away as the mirror.

I once heard a woman described as “almost very pretty.”

Now I remember a shimmer of recognition, like That’s something I might have said.

Like a capital E is kind of a bitchy, pale pink color.