Tomorrow is so long. Tomorrow extends to infinity, like the creases on a paper bag. The creases create slopes, slopes produce shadows, shadows define the spectrum; everything is constantly becoming. Under contingent branching, everything about tomorrow generates possibility.
The interior of the paper bag has no content, or rather, is continuous. It is not divided by creases and objects; it transitions today smoothly from today into yesterday. Continuous space, continuous nothing, continuous time. It waits for content to be packed into it. It stands there, silent in the posture of being carried along. I can barely see it, but it tangibly exists; it modifies the properties of everything around it. I must open the paper bag to see its interior space; before it is opened, it contains nothing, existing only as a whole. I will live from midnight to its end, the way one passes from the mouth of the bag to its bottom.
And there at the bottom it sets a boundary, and I cannot break through it to disturb all of time. So dark, but it is after all a limit, a thorough limit, meant to sever what lies beyond it, then stabilize into a structure that will not topple. Tomorrow will not topple. Despite its limits of endurance, despite tomorrow being a fog, tomorrow will not topple; tomorrow will not rampage destructively through my life, will not tear apart everything. And so I still believe tomorrow will be gently lifted from the bottom.
Its handle, a one-dimensional hole, and its opening, a two-dimensional hole, each open toward me. The opening accepts everything that can enter. The connection the handle provides makes it easier to control. Tomorrow is always a fresh start; it is entirely capable of distinguishing itself from today. Like a toe tune, the guitar refrain echoes over and over; its whole is solid, yet constantly changing. Play its creases, play its casual stroke of shadow, play its evocative dents. Tomorrow resonates powerfully with the guitar strings. The restoring force pulls at me: a longing for the bright reinvestment of tomorrow’s light.
After a spell of deep yet overwhelmingly pale abstraction, the creases snap back, and the paper bag returns to its original, endearing form. Light brown, reassuringly thick, quietly waiting, waiting for me, waiting for the birth of its creases…