“What are the chances of that?” he thought, gazing down at a haphazard collection of bits of car glass in the unfrequented patch of empty road at the base of a traffic light post. “Where the hell is the continuity between moments? This, then this, then this, but there is just no crossing between them.” And he drove on with his son in the back to the swimming pool and he noticed quietly that he would never, ever find what he was looking for. The present would never present him with something already lived, over, a yesterday, a gold coin in the pond of now. The present would always be ever so slightly cold, unfriendly, dispassionate perhaps, as it held no record, no account of him, was blind to him, and only cared for new things that meant nothing to anybody.