Myself ran a wire back through gelatinous time, 40 years hence, and said to me: “I remember you. And the years are like octaves, scales descending the keyboard. I am here at the lowest end, the speed of oscillation slowing, and I reach in the past to find the fourth, the fifth, every decade the octave. Harmonies doubling the power - that is the secret of growing old, that you can play your past and present like a piano. Most people don't.”

I will remain an obtuse bastard. “What should I do with this information?”

“Write elegies for those not born!” he said. “I have to go. This is expensive, and I am not as well-off as you're hoping.”

“Will I find abiding love?”

“Not enough time for that!” he said, and cut off. How like me, to close on a double meaning.