to calculate: the worth of the contents of a locked box, the key swallowed by a catcher of dreams, never to be seen or touched again by light. Barring the definitional impossibility of a solution, posited as a proxy another problem: the shape of the box, its quality, whether its locking mechanism is engraved in silver or of wrought iron. So the philosopher, without erring save in concept, may meditate upon the box long enough, but never to linger overlong, and from its attributes divine the worth of what is inside.
What is inside is tomorrow. And for never being seen, tomorrow must be blank. There are no contents, or if one, long ago, conceded some artefact to the faceless interior, then by ages they have grown cold and evaporated as the thoughts of a dying man