It will leave nothing. Nothing. The future comes, ripping the asphalt up—black, jagged slabs.
It chews and spews and carts away the crud. We’re in its dust, coughing, detoured, irate, squeezing our wheels between blaze-orange drums, while on both sides the wheeler-dealers land-grab. Where refugees nursed little stores on blood are artists’ lofts and high-end real estate,
their grand decks stacked against us. How this ends (upending our directions in mid-scheme without the be, finale to the seem)
is a steel-track lesson: that your road depends on dreaming of what cannot happen yet.
The future comes. It frees us to forget.