“Where were you when…?”
Not at all. Time doesn’t flow like a river, time disappears like a voice on the seashore sent haplessly into the raging wind.
Ten minutes later I am hard-pressed to detail “where I was when.”
By tomorrow I will have forgotten that the wind even exists.
Modernism dictates that we destroy all of today once every day, and that we remember nothing in the interest of perfecting everything. I am not a party to such a project, but I am nonetheless a component of this very project, as are we all.
This has happened.
This will, immediately, be forgotten.
We will, nonetheless, all be better for its having happened.
And life will go on, without scruples, without memory, without inner consistency.
Such is the way of things.