A tinge of melancholy appears to have crept into my day, right here at the end. No reason in particular. I was walking around Times Square and thinking about time and its transient, linear nature. Then some people in the 42nd Street subway station were playing terribly wistful, autumnal music, absolutely beautiful. I went down the stairs onto the platform and the trains were just leaving on both sides.
I dunno, it’s just another moment that doesn’t particularly matter in any way—that flows past with just a tiny ripple. Someday, however, there will be a last train. That secret admission is the tragic romance of every departure.
Time is the dream life of self-awareness. Self-awareness is the dream life of history. History is the dream life of tomorrow. Tomorrow is the dream life of today.