By passing through its opposite.

Now, then, all we are is becoming. It is what we do.

If I get out of hand and say "think about right now" it is, as soon as the words are completed, already gone. And if you want to think about that vanished present as something that is past and accepted, such an attempt is over before beginning, for the moment is too busy whirling out and away for you to catch hold of it. We have no choice but to endlessly become. Time turns us into mystical ballistics of a collective transfiguration.

So what should we ask of but how to catch up to ourselves. The moments whistling in my ears are an imagined fabric. How a sudden breeze has moved on as soon as it arrived, and how a thought laughs past before my eyes, I can never speak fast enough. You might say I am warm but once you do I have already grown colder. If you put your hand on me now, I can not present myself as current. All you touch is a shed skin, or a prophet whose words can never come in time.