Petals floating by, Drift through my woman’s hand, As she remembers me. - David Brin

I threw the other garment over my head and let its black drapery flow over my arms, down past my waist. From the outside, I now looked like some shrouded creature from those dark days, half a century ago, when a third of the countries on Earth forced women to veil their faces and forms under shapeless tents of muslin and gauze.

It’s an austere, terrifying sensation. A reminder of something we all suppress most of the time, because it hurts so much.
The stark loneliness of individuality.
The essential alienness of others.
And of the universe itself.

Why is the future always … in the future?