Time is like embroidery - on the face of it, it looks reasonable, rational and well-ordered. But underneath, it is a seemingly disorganized mass of erratic stitches; threads that seem to have no correlation to the pattern above, and yet each stitch is placed in such a way so it will appear harmoniously above.
How can our lives within the insubstantial "seen" transcend that fabric while we are still here and corporeal? Maybe it's not time travel, or The Matrix, but another state of transcendence... Perhaps this is how ghosts have become part of our mythology - how can they be envisioned when we do not return to this "seen" after death? Perhaps the linen is worn thin in places (since entropy is inescapable) and we are able to see the incomprehensible mass of stitches underneath.