As I step into the future I descend into a sea foamed with glass shards. In truth, I know, I am already present in the coming. I am cut all over, I am bled. With my teeth I I strain this sea, eating the present's slivers to nourish knowledge of what will be. Between each canid the blood font and froth, this the source of this feeling, the unease descending from the lip of the becoming.