Adam stared into the sun, wincing, pretending to read The Novel of the Future, written by Anaïs Nin in 1968. He bought it at Adobe Books in the city because the cover was rad and he thought she was rad and he wanted to know her thoughts about the future, or really, his present. But now he thought it would be better to read the novel of the future itself, which was bound to have been written by now. And thus he thought about the fact that he was living in a future that did not correspond with the one in the book, a past future. Or a future past.

Somehow these thoughts seemed profound to him at the time. But he’ll have trouble articulating it later. At the time he thought maybe he could write the novel of the future. Maybe I could be a writer, he thought. Why not? Music is dead anyway. His phone vibrated.

What are you doing

Adam replied, Living in the future, where I am writing a novel.

A few minutes later she texted, Can I get that ten dollars

Adam didn’t reply. He just stared into the sun.