The Trumbull Continuum

Walking down by the river, I would keep catching out of the corner of my eye glimpses of a future version of the city. (I trudge, as always, in Gibson's fleet footsteps.) These baby arcologies begin to grow, slowly encroaching on the neo-Ballardian landscape of plazas and balconies and flower-less knives of green. I've seen this elsewhere, in a beam of green light slicing the Greenwich night. I attempt to capture their image with the device I carry in my pocket, the one which is more powerful that the first seven computers I owned or the dozens which put men on the moon; the device which will let me instantaneously share with the world what I'm having for lunch or let me pull down videos of amusing cats no matter where I am. I live in the future.