I asked the future why it was not as good as it used to be.

It said it could see the diacritical marks on my words when I spoke.

I said: I saw one of Dali’s giraffes eat Magritte’s green apple.

The future said: Stop filling the air with words.

“On the eighth day of the rest of my life, I began to wonder if this was really the rest of my life or just a continuation of the same one. I had so little to go on.”

— Miranda July / “Mon Plasir”