It's almost a sacred leap, this kind of jumping through time, through histories not our own. Not just a cursory glance at another world, but trying to live it enough to see by the light of the fire that was, the ashes left in barely discernible mounds by others' breathing. The seriousness of it. The necessary respect, and the courage to move anyway. To hold and to leave what we hold. . . . It occurs to me that it may be easier to make this kind of leap through time than it would be to try a crucible of hypertext through space. What Latino or African-American world in the1990s would trust the intention here? And why should they? There are some flames that leave no ash. We are outsiders of the most terrifying sort, made so by our keeping others out.