There’s no point in writing about the future — the future’s here. The present has annexed the future onto itself.
“All things worth praise
That unto Khadeeth’s mart have
From far been brought through perils over-passed,
All santal, myrrh, and spikenard that disarms
The pard’s swift anger; these would weigh but light
‘Gainst thy delights, my Khadeeth! Whence protected
By naught save her great grace that in him showeth,
My song goes forth and on her mercy calleth.”
Ezra Pound | “Canzon: Of Incense”