X: It is a corridor, a single linear construction with an undeniable and indefinable point A that culminates at the concrete reality of present point B.
Y: It is a spiral, not unlike the helical nature of DNA; congruent points coincide.
Z: A sea, that’s what it is, an evolving and revolving sea that froths forth permutations of possibility, each twisting away from its predecessor like a root offshoots itself. A sea with infinite horizons.
A: Stillness. A block of stillness. All moments exist in that unmoving block, unfurled like an omnipresent reel with each frame illuminated by our passage. It has other names: Fate. Destiny. Kismet. Fate is free will. An oxymoron. Your choice determines the outcome, though the outcome has been determined. Fate is a snapshot of your life from squalling babe to creaking geriatric. The choices are yours but the outcome is always the same: as you read a book, does the ending change when you reach the final page?
B: It is what it is, dependent on me to observe. It is not there without an observer to observe its passage. What is a voice without a larynx?
C: It is simply the distance between events.
D: It’s time for lunch and this bellyaching is making me hungry. Spot ‘o tea, anyone?