The inchworm crawls along. The ground is slippery, shiny. He can see his eyes staring back at himself. He looks up. He can see where he will be in a few minutes. In a few hours. He can see his future bride standing far off in the distance. He can see the towering tree he will one day conquer. He can see the branches where his children will wake to the world. He can vaguely make out the spot where his legs will give out. Where he will finally die. His future stands before him, as visible as his reflection below him. It will just be some time until he gets there.
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