Time gets a raw deal, only one dimension instead of three,

and it had to lobby long and hard for that. Space gets to rest its big fat butt in three dimensions, length width and depth like a big reclining chair that can also be a sofa and can also be a bed like three dimensions of fucking off all day at the furniture barn. Space just licks its greasy-fried-chicken fingers and laughs at skinny little uni-dimensional time like an arrow always at odds with space, begging for crumbs on the floor. If anybody deserves three dimensions, it’s time, pregnant with past present and future. Try to get all that on a little line with an arrowhead on one end and a feather on the other. Space is just a simple container, a milk carton, a beer bottle, an oil tanker, a city, a continent, a planet, a solar system. Fill it with your favorite ingredients and shake well before using. Wha’d’ya’ got? Volume, stuff. Sounds like one dimension to me. More than one container? It’s still just stuff loosely connected to more stuff, Beaver in the breakfast nook, battles with battles, star wars, people gazing at planets, journeys between cities, points on planes, shaken not stirred. Space is mostly empty. Time is never empty. Space is just a point in time. Whether big or small, time just bends around it. Time covers all, everything that’s ever happened and everything that ever didn’t. Time is pure mathematics, the geometry of the past and the algebra of the future. Space can’t compete; still we maintain our sentimental attachment to it. It may not be the perfect dimension, but it’s our dimension.