There’s something oddly romantic about rust, peeling paint, and overgrown weeds. A reminder that the present isn’t necessarily shiny or new, but rather an accumulation of time and age. The slow oxidation of rust decaying what was once meant to be solid and sturdy and the weeds’ return to chaos now reign supreme. The existence of these reminders infuriate the best of us, but wrinkles, aching joints, and the growing pile of bills sitting in our mailboxes are too. Every fleeting moment is thrown onto a pile of other fleeting moments slowly decaying what once was. All this passing of time is the present moving gracefully, rapidly, and perhaps not quite to anyone’s advantage, forward into uncharted futures. Uncharted futures that have built themselves on time gone by, age, dilapidation, and decay.