The prejudice of the 'now' is as foolish as any of them. This punctilious scheme, the working now, is taken as the point of application of its child, an attention and a will that are your complete embodiment, your sole reality. This 'now' takes itself to be superior to time which it has only imagined, as curled up within itself, and melting away into its grey and echoing fringes. It possesses the reflexive so what more does it need? But could there be anything more ineffectual and absurd, more clownish than this present moment which is over before it began, which is so dazzled by being the heir to everything that it cannot see that it knows nothing, owns nothing, can do nothing, that even the little that it has, that unexaminable silvery sliver, that groan of distant thunder, remains the property of unreflecting time? To be where the now can't take you you have to be reabsorbed into the mass of time. Whatever comes has come before and will come again and no moment is complete without the full unfolding of its every recurrence, unbearable intensity of presence, the monstrous wheel of life pressing down with its full weight in every corner of eternity.