Soon enough, while Mr. Gibbs stomachs colorectal cancer, I return to the imaginary future.

All the time, my father spends his days and nights in unknown cognitive condition.

The EU squanders. Or flounders.

Useful youthful years are spent away from dedication to full employment by/for the global economy.

Whose vision is here for me?

I write here, right here, where goals and victories are created by us for us.

Subcategories of subcutaneous subcultural attributes gain strength in building buildings, gilded, geldings waiting by the bay.

This moment is my future. Was. Will be.

I compete with/against my former dreams.

Listening to the likes of Claire Lynch, Ben Bosco, April Taylor and the Lunabelles; pump/reed organs; piano; mobile phone ringtones in sync with automobile brakes and squeaking steering wheels.

Thanks to Robert, Tracy, Kelly, Jody, Eloise, Rick, and Wendy today at the VA. [Yes, it was windy today, too.]

I write as if the future already happened [it did].

That’s the way it was.

Doesn’t matter who, when or where.

The future has a way of controlling its destiny [in retrospect, of course].

A class of ’82 SCHS graduate behind the counter at DQ.

Leaving the farm at 18 only to return and buy the one next door.

Do you know who’s going to Germany?

Who’s been to Myrtle Beach?

Whose father owned a TR3 and then a Porsche?

Who knows the best SNFs in town?

Does anyone want my father for a guinea pig for ALS/dementia/depression brain enhancement research, getting his professorial input via scribbled one-word responses to start with?

How will we deal with autism/dementia in solar system colonies not equipped for nonessential task assignments?

How far do I stretch my thought set to truly take in all seven billion of us, completely attached to the global economic employment model or not?

Every one of us is a data point in the scheme of turning carbon-based lifeform equivalents back out into the galaxy.

Your future has been plotted and trended.

Time to tell you what you’ll be thinking/doing next.

The reluctant leaders plods on in his clodhoppers…