The Present (n.) is not; it is a perpetual flight in the face of being.
The Present (n.) is made, socially, of events, products and acts of extraordinarily diverse temporal depth.
The Present (n.) confines me: I build memories with my present self, forsaken here, and I cannot rejoin the past.
The Present (n.) means presence to — as the pupil at rollcall answers "Present!": opposed to absent as much as to past.
The Present (n.) can never be caught as an instant, because an instant would be the moment when the present is — and the present only makes itself present by fleeing.
The Present (n.) shrinks, once stripped of past and immediate future, to an infinitesimal instant, and the ideal limit of an infinite division is a nothingness.
The Present (n.) splits when I imagine Pierre pouring himself a drink behind my back at this moment: the irreal present and the real present do not coincide, and apprehending one annihilates the other.