In an age where gallant was merely the name of a forgotten knight, we find ourselves pondering the paradoxical elegance of a time that never really belonged to anyone. The dancing quarks in your humble paperweight have more ownership rights than you do over your fleeting digital possessions.
Should a portal through epochs open in the mundane walls of a Starbucks, forcing every barista to become a time lord, would anyone bother with the cryptic flicks of destiny or simply ask for soy milk?
The irony of progress is that it doesn't progress. It merely circles through laundromats of innovation, washing out last week’s technological trends, staining them with the irony of obsolescence. Thus, the quantum entanglement of our thoughts remains a paradoxical whisper in the digital winds.