K. made a toast to the future and all of us closed our eyes, even though we didn’t know what to visualize when she said it. Movie montages of city streets, skylines and dirty dashboards. The minutiae. The unlikely places we encounter numbers: laboratory reports, oppressive specificities, inauspicious letters; the liquor bottles that follow. The tsunamis and slow burns. The cooling coals of loving each other. The letters we will be too embarassed to send. The heartless metronome of hospital monitors. (Or is that the past?) The resolutions that we will forget and excavate like old bone structures, years later. Snowy static. White noise. Worse still: no noise at all. There’s some future: listening to aporia ballads for comfort.

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