And is infinite. A perpetual next in line.
Our pasts and our achievements are fading as soon as they are created, dying as soon as they are born.
And there’s comfort in the intimidation that the next chapter births, for there’s never any reason to dwell on what’s behind. It’s always ahead of us, where the anxiety lies and lie it does, deceiving and placid.
And what next and who’s better and when will it pass and why not now?