The future is nothing more than a moment that is neither the now nor a past moment. What will happen will feel the same as what is currently happening or what has already happened. The only reason why the future is so tantalizing is simply because it has yet to pass.
There is no mystery in the future, though people love to imagine there is, for one would hate to accept the fact that things just happen as they always have, and each day passes ceaselessly into the next with little to no variation or deviation.
Imagine every single moment is like a page in a book. While each page of every book, past and present, does physically exist, each of those pages only feels like they exist while being read. And, even if the content of some pages may be indeterminate, it is only because we have not yet read them.
This is how we should conceive of time.
From the perspective of this tome, there is no break, no respite from the darkness, from bleak days and from the ceaseless remorse of being alive. No separation from the glorified trauma of the present moment, time hurtling forward like a bullet running through flesh. The present is a wound; the past is a scab. And the future is skin waiting to be flayed open, poised to receive the bloody onslaught of Time. Can we be liberated from the cycle of death that haunts these jottings? The death of the Self, of the Symbolic Order, of Time itself?