I wish only to forget that which has yet to happen. I smell like burnt gingko nuts. My fingernails have the brown dots of roasting heat on them. In the future, I looked into the eyes of my fellow workers in long sleeve office wear, chinos, and pantsuits. All of them in their varieties of humble abundance, shuffling amid their workstations. We all have bruises on our shins from bumping into office furniture, and they look like plums. If I sit here much longer I’ll turn into butter; sensitive not only to the heat, but to the faces of my fellow workers making eyes at the end of the day.
The gingko has given me such a good memory that I can see into the future, a sort of “pre-memory” before the event has even occurred. This has caused me a certain amount of unease, so if my name is brought up again at a particular table, don’t bother telling me, I already know anyway. Just like I know when my name will be brought up again and under what circumstances. I know some other things, but I cannot divulge them at this juncture, not even for cash money. I will not reveal your fate by peering into the future with the aid of a nut from that tree. I’m swooning with future thoughts. I remain in the future.