There are places still.
There are places still where the past doesn’t matter.
There are places still unaffected by those who came before. Their survival imparts no help for your own, where the father is no more informed than the son.
There are places which require knowing one’s self as if we were each simply scraping out an existence under the infinite sky rather than hiding pieces of ourselves in different pockets of place, time, and memories cataloged in metropolises of past tense verbs.