Time is but the stream and the fish are unfolding like lap napkins. When I think of the fourth dimension, I think of those specialty stores at the mall designed for kids that’re smarter than I’ll ever be. Toys like Escher paintings. Magic tricks that are actually second cousins to quantum physics. I’m on a bench under a skylight dome in some suburbanite’s wet dream. Glass falls as someone knocks on the sky. I’m too preoccupied to notice. I’m scrolling as fast as I can through my phone but the time at the top of the screen isn’t moving any faster than it usually does. The worst part about having instant access to a clock is that even when you think you’re thoughtfully indexing the current moment, we’re all still limited to three dimensions—sometimes that feels like three too many, and sometimes, not enough. Time is but some fisherman’s stream of consciousness. Salmon rush upstream but turn back when they’re confronted by biblically accurate angels dressed in bear suits. Like magic, the skylight’s shattered glass turns to water. I unfold a wave and surf my way to the viewing window of Auntie Anne’s where some guy is twisting up a line of pretzels. They’re each in the shape of a vortex. I order one for me and one for the son I could’ve had if I never came out. The boy is in the center of the food court, unfolding a toy that looks like a tesseract. He’s stretching it wider than his arms should be able to reach. The pretzels in my hands weigh a ton. Soon, we are both on the floor and then the floor is above us. A dusting of cinnamon sugar floats in the air like stars.