Calculating the rings, thrown like dice, just does not work.
Time, like a skein of wool, untangles itself and winds itself up into a ball, modifying its linear structure: now it hides both its ends, now one end, now the other, perhaps held back uselessly.
Finally time recreates itself backwards.
[…] You don't remember; another time besets
your memory; and a thread is wound.
I still hold an end of it; […]
E. Montale “The Shorewatcher's House”