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Your future self will always see what your present self is blind to. This is the problem with mortality, which is in fact a problem of time.
“Perhaps I’m very vain,” she suggested, “or too clever for my own good.
“I thought maybe we could be friends,” he said. “Or, if that sounds like too much work, then maybe we can have five more conversations.”
“I hypothesize and then prove.”
“I like it,” he said. “What?” He loosened the wine from his lips. “Your brain.”
“So you’d rather have knowledge than happiness?” He thought about it. “Yes,”
“doesn’t happiness seem… fake? Like it might be something someone invented. An impossible goal we’ll never reach,”
With the way moonlight fell over them it seemed to him that they were each one half of a person, divided in two, each fraction left to be the other’s reflection.
The other half of her truths was a lie.
“Sometimes I feel like I’m just waiting for something that will never happen,” he said. “Like I’m just existing from day to day but will never really matter. I get up in the morning because I have to, because I have to do something or I’m just wasting space,
“So when people say we’re alone in the ether…?” “Alone in everything. In time and space, in existence, in religion.”
She read voraciously, several books at once, or not at all.
Damn it, I love him.
