I wandered up the high hill yesterday, almost at the top of the island. I was aiming for Homer's school and thinking, over the sound of the cicadas, about books and writing and Melbourne, and that no matter what you do, no matter how yawning and far away the future looks, time pedals its legs.

It feels stupid to ever impatiently anticipate anything, because no matter where it is in the ether of the future, it is also, always, imminent. If feels like that. Even the things you've squinted at...