It is a bit like a curse. That insatiable itch. That oh, so human desire to know the future before the seeming snail’s pace in which we find ourselves encountering it.
Endings. Beginnings. Been on my mind, though I suppose the truth is in all the living in the between.
There is to be a show. I am to put one on. Less than a week to go. And here I am, interrupting my own preparation.
I wonder. At what point does memory become history? And, at what point is desire too corrupted by selfishness so that nothing pure is left remaining?