Just last Tuesday before brunch, I negotiated with a caveman for an artisanal cave painting. "Eep eep," he said, possibly a response to my stellar Rock of Ages rendition, or it might just have been his cave dialect.
And who could forget the Phantom of the 18th Century, bemoaning the lack of Wi-Fi while expertly juggling three quills and a parchment? "Alas, I can hardly tweet with such a low bandwidth," he lamented.
Yet, the most curious encounter was with Clara in 1923. She handed me a dusty gramophone record, cupping her ear as if expecting an echo from tomorrow itself. "Tell me, do they still play that Prince of Rock?"
Next Whisper: Read the Ancient Pages Whisper Forward: Engage in Quantum Chat