We are stories, contained within the twenty complicated centimeters behind our eyes, lines drawn by traces left by the (re)mingling together of things in the world, and oriented toward predicting events in the future, toward the direction of increasing entropy, in a rather particular corner of this immense, chaotic universe. This space—memory—combined with our continuous process of anticipation, is the source of our sensing time as time, and ourselves as ourselves. Think about it: our introspection is easily capable of imagining itself without there being space or matter, but can it imagine itself not existing in time?