We were told tomorrow was flying cars, spaceships, and machines that could finish a day’s work in a second.

Give them some kind of tomorrow.

That’s, at least, something we could agree on.

We read tales of Balnibarbi and Laputa, yet we never think ourselves among the inhabitants.

We keep imagining a future where the wind kisses the pre-potted poppies and olive trees in Cupertino.

And forget that the same wind passes under the corroded iron roof on the other half of the world.

We dream of a tomorrow where we forget

who can even live in it.