Worried about the moments I'll live in the future, he takes responsibility for saving them by sacrificing himself. It's a good purpose, he has a good heart, I recognize that, but it's very tiring for me.
Trying to save my future moments, my possible futures, by organizing foolproof plans that will protect them from life, from the letters that write life. Of course, plans ex novo because the past is no longer useful, because my past, which made every effort to create a foolproof plan for the futures of my life, didn't know as much as my present. Or so he believes. And so the wheel turns and turns, at every moment, at every present.
Anguished by my present inability to save the futures of my life from all the evils it can imagine, it continues to scheme definitive plans, taking itself for an all-knowing prophet who sacrifices itself, and my future moments as beings completely incapable of solving their problems.
