I am increasingly unsure of the division we put between the past and the present. It seems, the more time I spend wandering the land, seeing the things my parents saw, and feeling the same things, almost as if I am, at times, them-as if our biological progress has been so infinitesimal that there's no significant difference between us-that there is no true fence, no stone wall, between the present and the past: that we construct (out of fear, or hunger for the future, gluttony, these fences behind us; that we turn our backs on who and what we really are-who and what we still are.