David Mitchell always bends my mind. His latest novel, The Bone Clocks, like all good literature, poses a What if that stretches us, and my mind spends all night what-ifing in my dreams. Words mingle in the images, and I wander the halls of the novel, thinking about words and time. Temporality. Where do all those thoughts go when we leave? Pools of time puddling around our feet? Virginia Woolf would have us think so. Time touches us, brushes us old, but millisecond by millisecond, we do not feel it. We only capture pieces stored in a brain overcrowded with facts and numbers and the occasional sunny day by a pool of autumn–semi-permanent visions of some past permeable by time itself, which unravels the memory.