One of the recurring fantasies of very busy people is the existence of a market where one could buy a little time. You arrive at a kiosk and say to someone, “Hey Bud, don’t you have anything to do? How about selling me a couple hours?” There would be the oldest with lots of money buying a few years from the youngest. There would be a separate line for those condemned to death by the law, another very long one for those given up on by the doctors, and a department, protected by many bodyguards, with special offers on time for the politicians who didn’t keep their promises.

Me, I have a good memory for these things, I remember that I was promised a bright future. They assured me, in the middle of a plaza that I shared with almost a million people, that the wealth would be gained by means of the conscience and that no force on earth was capable of preventing this purpose. It’s true that they didn’t give me a precise date, I have to admit it, but it’s also true that no one denied the chroniclers of triumphalism, the poets of utopia who sang of the dazzling future. “We are a people who know the name of the future,” said the minstrels; we denied salt and bread to the unbelievers and bet our youth, the golden time of our youth, to a senseless chimera.

Now, we have lost hope and patience, time has become extremely expensive, and they have squandered all the capital with which they might buy it.