But if you are this discrete bubble in space, what are you in time? As a first guess, say you are smeared out in time. You extend back along a root-like system into the past; you are only in the now by virtue of having arrived from out of that past which you carry with you as if you have messages to deliver. You are expelled from the past, pushed out, forced to be reborn in each moment, continually saying farewell, grateful for memory's gifts. The future is not the mirror image of the past; it is a definite and opaque threshold beyond which you can see possibilities, but not yourself. To enter into the future you need to choose and you can't know what you will choose until you have done so. The future is singular but the past is plural; there are many pasts, memories are endlessly creative, you are not necessarily tied to any of them, but that others can revise them, cut across them, weave them into a different story. In the distant past you emerge out of a grey fog of non-existence; you have no knowledge of what this means but it feels friendly, you have no qualms about aeons of pure potentiality; it's fuzzy, there are curtains and breezes that occasionally sweep them aside to reveal other curtains, even further back in the distance. The future, however, ends abruptly, inevitably, bang!, all black, and then even the blackness fades to black. But didn't I say that this was just a first guess? The funny thing is that all of this double vista exists only in the now, only ever now. And just as they say that you can never fall into a black-hole because the closer you get the more time slows down, so can you never fall out of the now.