by erodal

we’ve grown so obsessed with our predictive powers: our witch doctors cast their bones and we stand in awe when it all comes true; but it feels a different kind of blindness, future-blind, mistaking what works in the future for the right thing to do; and it sounds so wrong, somehow, to dismiss the future in this day-and-age; but say: if we were to die, should we prevent it and become monsters, or take our chances on the higher road? the bones are cast, the future has fangs.