Hope is one half of the divided world. The other is apprehension. We are, in fact, haunted by the future as much as the past because we live in a distraction of expectation. Tantalus is one version of this torture. In every fear of or desire for tomorrow, we murder our present. This is true in the most pedestrian of ways. We look forward more to Friday than Saturday. We look at each other in offices and say, “TGI.” On the other hand, we enter Saturday anticipating its end. This actual day of rest breaks upon us not with relief but a quiet dread of the coming week of drudgery. And so are all the hopes we reach for, never arriving in the present but coming back only as nostalgia or belief in a golden age. If there is any true hope it resides in a balance of these forces finally allowing us to arrive in the present moment.