As time moves forward, it is always what it was. It falls short of itself in its continuity. Never reaching back. Never suspended. Always a “now” that continues on, unimpeded, undistracted. It is “filled out” by the movement or stillness of objects in space, broken down into experiential moments delineated by the thematic horizons of existence with its many indeterminable instances. It is the main ingredient of all experience and it provides one with the ability to differentiate a course or action; to attempt to manipulate what has yet to be, and produce what has already been. Within its sequential orderliness it leaves behind a residue of life clinging to what comes next, haunted by its own history and preparing to fulfill whatever destiny is to unfurl in the unpredictable, unintelligible, passing of “what is now.”
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