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