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Our future must be held in the greystones.

This was not always our position on the matter. When we were young we believed, as young people often do, that the future was an object capable of being marked, improved, or at the very least annotated. In those years a small group of us carried, in our pockets or satchels, certain instruments: nails, folding knives, the metal tips of broken compasses. With these tools we scratched names, dates, and occasionally short declarative phrases into the surfaces of the greystones that line the old terraces of the City.

The results were, for a time, encouraging.

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