There are before me oceans of time, events and experiences.

There are behind me memories that exist only in the projected imagination of inherited history; memories and images of things and happenings, cruel and sublime, that I project into a past, as if I had done them, as if I had existed then.

And I see before me a cloudy chamber of other events, of other beings, of other people; as if there was a future; as if I could project myself into it. Though I know I am always here, that there is never any future, never any past; that I am always surrounded by the womb of my Beloved–my mother, my sister, my lover–about to be born not into a future place but into an other-where.

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