What Follows

What follows never happened. Or never yet happened. What I mean is I haven't written it yet. Perhaps I never will, in which case it never will happen.
"But what is this it that never happened?"
I'm sorry, I thought I'd made myself clear. The subsequent writing hadn't yet happened, the great whole, the entirety of the edifice.
"But how could it? We are at the tip of an arrowhead of time forever piercing the oblivion of the non-existent future, and since what lies beyond the forever arrowing arrow doesn't as yet exist, then of course what follows, or followed, the present moment doesn't yet exist, hasn't or hadn't yet happened."
But it does now, or at least it did. It did happen. These very words are their own proof that the subsequent writing happened.
"But differentiate between the verb and the noun for goodness sake! By 'the writing' do you mean the actual act of writing or the writing itself?"
Both. The verb, the act of writing, had not yet occurred nor the noun, what is written, existed. The noun now exists, or at least some of it, some of all that is subsequently written, but the verb is, yes, perhaps a stranger phenomenon. Someone, some blackguard, might voice doubts as to the verb. "All we have is the noun," says he. "Show us this verb."
And how could I, unless, I suppose, I recorded it, the act of writing, that is, with some technological device, like a camera-phone. A prosaic enough object in this day and age. But I'm not going to do that- start making technological copies of my actions. What are we going to end up doing- making records of everything we do in order to prove it happened? If that's where we're going we might as well get off now. And anyway, how could there be writing without writing, and why would anyone want to pretend there could? What is at stake? And why waste your time arguing the case?