The future tastes like ice-cold artesian well water, like copper, like blood on your tongue, like the tang of a nine-volt battery.
The future smells like ozone, like burning rubber, like plastic water bottles, like snow.
The future sounds like white noise, like train whistles in the distance, like doorbells, like the staticky space that shifts and sits between radio stations.
The future looks like daybreak, like sunset, like early-afternoon sunlight, like cellophane, like lightbulbs.
The future feels like polyester, like velour, like Tupperware, like bubblewrap and packing foam, like cold steel.