Tomorrow, and Tomorrow, and Tomorrow: A novel

“Someday,” Tim loved to say, “is a disease that will take your dreams to the grave with you.”

he had learned to tolerate the sometimes-painful present by living in the future.

On the verge of disappearing, she turned, and she ran back to him. “Sam!” she said. “Do you still game?”

Tomorrow, and tomorrow, and tomorrow, Creeps in this petty pace from day to day, To the last syllable of recorded time; And all our yesterdays have lighted fools The way to dusty death. Out, out, brief candle! Life’s but a walking shadow, a poor player,

This is what time travel is. It’s looking at a person, and seeing them in the present and the past, concurrently. And that mode of transport only worked with those one had known a significant time.

Memory, you realized long ago, is a game that a healthy-brained person can play all the time, and the game of memory is won or lost on one criterion: Do you leave the formation of memories to happenstance, or do you decide to remember?