People from the future are stupid. They must know what happened. Not to lecture, but countless misconceptions always arise when the subject tiringly turns back to time. To summarize the position of the post-quantal school of psycho-physicists: it could be said that time slices, and time is also a slice. When the subject turns to time, making a slice, a piece gets lopped off, like cutting off a fingertip while dicing vegetables, it’s self-inflicted. Juice and widely quoted proclamations chopped up in dozens of dead languages wet the butcher’s apron with runny antimatter, the yolk of origins. Try to repair the parts and recreate the whole, but it’s an exercise that’s both cosmic and futile. I meant to say comic and futile. The future is not a place, as if, upon departing, a senile mode of transportation simply ambles along a path, forgetting events while they’re occurring, as the passengers watch their home era recede into the distance. No, the future unrolls if it goes back. The universe is the highest grade fiberoptic line we could afford on our veteran discount, but time reverts to analog VHS tape when idiots mash buttons on the controller’s controls. The rich try anyway, believing that time travel is an affordable way to take advantage of monetary inflation. “The past is so cheap!” is their way of thinking, dumping trillions into pre-paid debit cards that are unusable in Periclean Greece or in Han dynasty China or in Tutankhamen Egypt or in Zuckerbergian America.