You think I was prophetic, since pretty much my demented world, a world I imagined writing about, came to be post by post, meticulously metered and rhymed to a standing dictation years ago, pre-revolution, the way the re, and not the pre, turns around and round inside our head to the spindle of the farman-farmayans, no matter which manifestation is en vogue in small frames pasted everywhere, on paper or phone, their voices booming from terraces or wheezing from the square magnets shivering in electricity. If this is now, you might not believe tomorrow, but you'd be wrong. Tomorrow has not happened. Like cannons, the dark tech always begins in war and turns white in cars. Contrary to the adage, war in the long term has not proven to be good for the economy, as defined by the psychology of a group that speaks Farsi or Latin or English or Marti (whatever that is) to spend its IOUs. To put it more plainly, we get tired of things. Just like we tired of promiscuity, of temperance, of bell bottoms, sharing, not sharing, the space, mother earth. How it happens is like a grain, a fluffy little ball, that merely passes you by like a covered glance, the radiance of which dwarfs your preoccupation with survival, and its opposite, more than a dream and less than a necessity, a resonance of our collective memory of utter happiness. I point at the forks. You nod silently. I hold your hand, walk ahead. You are taken by my physical beauty.

jam25