And at other times, as you wait, the air swarms as it does in a short story by Jorge Luis Borges, the one about the Garden of Forking Paths, a garden where an infinite series of times exists, a growing, dizzying net of divergent, convergent and parallel times. Because here it is discovered that time forks perpetually towards innumerable futures in which all things are possible. In that garden you perceive (all around you and within your own dark body) an intangible teeming, an infinite saturation of invisible persons, insatiably intent and multiform in other dimensions.

   Yes, the air swarms. It swarms all right. It swarms with ifs and buts. It swarms with it would  waiting upon it were. It swarms with all the sorts of stuff that may make your scalp crawl.