Yet time steamrolls forward Yet time steamrolls forward and really doesn’t care in the slightest how I like that. It seems futile to pass by every “now” agonizing for a future in which I could just as well pass by agonizing for another future because time steamrolls forward and really doesn’t care in the slightest how I like that. It seems the only point in time at which I have certain control and no uncertainty over my emotion is the present. Oh, what a gift, ha ha, is that the joke? Yet though time steamrolls forward and really doesn’t care in the slightest how I like that, I think I’m averse to the present like the demons from my past. I think, indeed, that’s the joke.