The White Hot Sun Recursive Triumphant

It is as simple as an Iron Robot wearing eyeliner. Truly. It is Bergman's rule combined with Bayse's law. The present. We were born into it and never leave. Present after present after present time, they jumble and stack, falling over themselves in a cluttered pile ten million heart attacks and lost keys tall. Beneath me, a type A0 sun has blown itself to bits, volcanoes have erupted, atmospheres have changed and changed again in their isotopic composition, birthdays have been ruined and enjoyed, pianos have been played and under the shade of a million million trees carbon has been exhaled and inhaled again. Life goes on and I am here, now, like every future instance of me reading this passage and every potential reader ingesting it for the first time or afterward. The pleasant moments, like this one, age well. The conflicted and sad ones age a little better. It is in the stacking of them that we create a narrative of who we are and where we have been, so that each present might search these fourth and fifth dimensions for meaning after meaning locked in the illusion of three dimensions. I wonder about the iron in my bloodstream and try to imagine the strange instant of present time that gave rise to them. How did all this carbon get here? Why am I so reluctant to part with books? When will I meet that elephant?