“Tomorrow was over the horizon, and would take an entire day to reach.”

“Memory was supposed to fill the time, but it made time a hole to be filled. Each second was two hundred yards, to be walked, crawled. You couldn't see the next hour, it was so far in the distance. Tomorrow was over the horizon, and would take an entire day to reach.”

“Menacing lines of black tomorrows on the horizon.”

“Deep down, all the while, she was waiting for something to happen. Like a sailor in distress, she kept casting desperate glances over the solitary waster of her life, seeking some white sail in the distant mists of the horizon. She had no idea by what wind it would reach her, toward what shore it would bear her, or what kind of craft it would be – tiny boat or towering vessel, laden with heartbreaks or filled to the gunwhales with rapture. But every morning when she awoke she hoped that today would be the day; she listened for every sound, gave sudden starts, was surprised when nothing happened; and then, sadder with each succeeding sunset, she longed for tomorrow.”

“It seemed like all the way to tomorrow and over it to the days beyond.”

“She called and said she had to cancel tomorrow. “Cancel tomorrow!” I shrieked. “Does that make today the last day, or at midnight tonight will the world just skip over to the day after tomorrow? But wouldn’t that still make it tomorrow?”