Time is long, and it moves in a line. If I get a front-row seat for the big bang, I’ll know the line is curved.

I can assure you that time doesn’t fold on itself. Jury’s still out on whether it’s a mobius strip, but I promise you, it’s no a Gordian knot, and there’s no sword to split it.

Seven hundred million civilizations. I ran into them by chance, one by one by one. I hung, I orbited, I rocketed into atmospheres, I burned, I landed, I spoke, I caught a lift to the next galaxy. I was a god. Hitchhiking.

They all tried to master time travel, some only once, others repeatedly. The idea is an eternal memetic heartbeat. They wanted to go back, play handymen. They wanted to go forward, play treasure hunters. Didn’t happen. Not once.