This one littler feller, who didn’t talk much, would sometimes mutter, “It’s hard to say, it’s hard to say.” And his brother, who talked enough for four people, would sometimes exclaim, “It’s hard to say, it’s just hard to say.” But the truth is, neither one of ‘em found it all that hard to say.
There is a place, in the future, where originals are worth something.
If ordinary intelligence hears a voice from in-the-future, and thinks it understands it, it has been conned without a conman.
In the future, those who would lead a parade would not return to watch it. (…and: There is also a particular place in the future, where the energies of the words “wouldn’t” and “couldn’t” embrace and annihilate one another.)
One sure way not to discover where you are, is to ask.